sonsoffenris

[sonsoffenris]

Kept forgetting to upload this lovely boy as you can tell by the heckin’ date 

This is Coinneach, @long-fang ‘s amazing witcher man whom I would die for.

[sonsoffenris]

((Little heads up, this story is quite a bit darker than my usual stuff, dealing with torture and imprisonment. It ain’t pretty. Please read at your own discretion, dear readers.))

Searing pain brought Coinneach back to consciousness with a rasping growl. The sensation of cold steel cutting a line down his torso sent his bulky frame into a spasm, straining hard against solid iron restraints holding his arms aloft. The Witcher’s muscles screamed for release from the tortuous task of holding Coinneach upright. The sudden sensory overload proved to much for the chained giant. His senses were violated by the stench of seared flesh, sending his mind reeling. Vision blurred, he couldn’t compose himself. The room he found himself in spun and deformed before his eyes. His stomach knotted, the Witcher’s fortitude gave way; forcing a toxic mixture of alchemical ingredients and the contents of his last meal forth from his mouth. The reeking discharge spilled across his bare legs and proceeded to splatter onto a frigid stone floor.

“Ah, awake at last!” Exclaimed a cheery voice. “I expected the dosage to keep you sedated for somewhat longer.”

A hand clad in a thin calfskin glove gently caressed the Witcher’s thigh, eliciting a fearful shudder from the confused Skelligan. The invasive hand clinically swept away the vomit, pausing at intervals as if inspecting the contents.

“But I see my concoction doesn’t agree with you.” The stranger chuckled.

Coinneach bristled, but did his best to keep whatever composure he could muster. With extreme effort he managed a single word through cracked lips.

“Where?” He whispered.

“Somewhere quiet. My workplace.” His captor replied coldly.

The hand still attending to Coinneach’s shaking leg left finally removed itself. The Skelligan struggled to bring himself under control. Every part of his body warned him of extreme danger, pain and trauma. His head spun with the sudden deluge of information. His senses were totally overwhelmed. A stomach churning mixture of bile and copper tainted his mouth and the ever present scent of death and his own unwashed body loomed over him like a storm cloud.

The stranger shifted away from Coinneach with the rhythmic tap of well heeled shoes. Even now, the skills of hunting and tracking drilled into the Witcher at a young age floated to the surface of his chaotic thoughts. Coinneach clung to these instincts like flotsam in a turbulent sea. Oh the sea...The giant made a silent prayer to whoever deity would regard a mere mutant. He wished only to see the coast of Skellige again.

Don’t go down that path, old man. He thought to himself, cursing his weakness. Focus on the hunt.

Coinneach focussed intently, pushing away every unwanted sensation and placing his concentration onto his hearing.

Heavy steps, favouring the left leg. Creaking knees. Somewhat overweight.

The strain on his consciousness was great but it was all the Witcher could do, lest he slip away again.

“Now, then.” Coinneach’s captor began. “I am terribly sorry that you’ll be awake for this.”

A metal tray was placed before his kneeling form. The sound reverberated like a death knell around the room.

“But the show must go on!”

“Why?” Coinneach coughed with his head hung low.

“Why?” The stranger chortled, mimicking the Witcher’s broken speech.

An implement was removed from its container with a clatter.

“Because you-” Coinneach could sense the air shift as the tool moved ever closer. “-are worthy of study.”   

Cold, smooth metal brushed across the Witcher’s temple. Cold sweat rolled down his face, irritating his eyes. Every muscle in his body tensed, sending lances of agony through his battered form.

Loose hair brushed against Coinneach’s shoulder and fell away, followed by more clumps of his messy locks. The Skelligan pulled at his restraints with all of the strength he could muster. With a roar he willed his legs back to life to no avail. A hand clamped down harshly around Coinneach’s throat, evenly applying pressure with each passing second.

“This will only make things more difficult, Witcher.” The stranger called out sternly. The jovial tone had left their voice now, replaced with something more akin to that of a parent scolding a child.

The blade cutting away Coinneach’s hair shifted course swiftly and stabbed hard into his shoulder. The Witcher let out an exhausted moan of torment as the tool sank easily into his tender, bruised flesh. He gasped for air, taking in lungfuls to replace that which had been forced out by the shock. His world turned black as the sharpened edge ground against bone.

“Do we have an understanding now?”

The giant said nothing in return as lost the battle against the pain. Everything became dark and quiet.

*****

Another jolt of agony. More poking and prodding. Slowly the Witcher returned to the world of the living, for whatever that was worth to him now.

“Awake again?”

Coinneach mouthed a response but couldn’t make a sound. The only action available to him was to stare blankly at the operation being performed. A polished silver scalpel slid effortlessly across the Witcher’s torso. Four incisions were conducted with incredible precision, carving a diamond like shape into his abdomen. More tools were applied, holding the wounds open and creating channels for blood to flow. Scissors snipped away at the raw flesh, separating the skin from the body with brutal efficiency. Coinneach’s captor hummed a tune as they butchered the Witcher without a care. The surgeon’s patient was numb to the torment, so used to pain now after years of monster hunting and what felt like an age in chains. His only solace was a light breeze that danced through the patches of hair adorning his head. Intense heat woke Coinneach from his trance as a red hot iron was forced onto the wound. The Witcher’s mouth opened in a soundless howl. A glass jar opened with a pop and closed tight moments later. Yet another sample.

How long had it been?

A familiar sensation touched upon the edges of Coinneach’s frayed mind. The hair on his arms stood on end, sending a shiver through his spine. Magic was at work. Blinding light of purest white flooded the room. Coinnneach forced his dry eyes shut in fear.

A scream of bestial rage, a blade sinking into flesh. Hot blood splashed across the Witcher’s face. Mewling screams faded into gurgling before silence fell again.

“What did that bastard do to you, old man?” Asked a new voice.

Coinneach struggled to lift his head to no avail. Any strength remaining had finally left him.

“Gods…” The voice said in shock.

Hands were placed on each cheek, lifting the Skelligan’s face to meet their owner. A single eye of blazing orange with a slit pupil gazed down at him. Sharp, weather worn features were framed with flaxen hair.

“Kamil.” Coinneach rasped.

A smile appeared on his old apprentice’s face, tears welling in her eyes. She gently placed a hefty chain around his neck. He gazed down at the visage of a snarling bear hanging from the chain and began to feel his old self returning from the darkest depths of his mind. Kamil embraced her mentor tight. The sensation of warmth left him in shock momentarily. In time though, he followed in kind, resting his head upon his saviour’s shoulder.

“Kamil, we need to get him out of here.” An unfamiliar voice chimed in. An accent Coinneach was unfamiliar with.

“I have a friend with me.” Kamil started, releasing her grip on the giant with great care. “She’ll take us home.”

((And once again I return from months of writing nothing. Mental health and college have been proving a bit of a nightmare to manage recently, but a dear friend @snipelikessteak pushed me to try writing something and help me get out of the rut I was in. So you can blame her :P Thanks for reading!))

[sonsoffenris]

“Another gorgeous day, don’t you think?” Teodor said. Taking up the reigns of the draft horse before him, he admired the surroundings. Fields of sun kissed grain swayed in the light breeze as it stretched out towards the treeline ahead. “Come on Sally, let’s go.” He said gently, giving the reins a shake. The old mare picked up her pace with a reluctant nicker, sending his wagon and its occupants trundling along the dirt road. With a yawn and a long stretch, Teodor looked behind him. Heavy load of grain, wool, ale and other trade goods filled the bed nearly to the brim, leaving just enough room for Teodor’s three children and a still sleeping passenger.

“Planning on waking up and doing your job, Mister Witcher?” Teodor asked. The Witcher’s huge frame lay sprawled out on top of the cargo while Elena, Stjepan and Adela giggled and laughed as they prodded and poked at him, playing with the buckles of his boots.

“I am awake.” Coinneach responded with a low rumble. The three young ones jumped in fright at the sudden sound. The Witcher suppressed a wry smile. Coinneach was not used to dealing with children and young folk. In his experience, most were usually driven away from the mere sight of him by his eyes, scars, looks or by their superstitious elders. These three looked at him in wonder, however. Each day of travel had been filled with questions ranging from reasonable to bizarre, depending on the age of those asking. At first, Coinneach was unsure what to say, so used to adults and his typical brutal honesty. Why are your eyes like that? Where are your old eyes? Have you ever fought a dragon? What does a vampire smell like? Have you eaten a monster? After some guidance from Teodor, Coinneach eventually broke his silence and spun the children tales of fantastical adventures filled with danger and mystery; how he lost his old eyes to a hag, the dragon of the moors that could only be calmed by the songs of fair maidens, and how he ate a Nekker whole to teach its friends a lesson. The young ones took in every tale with wide eyed awe, hanging on the Witcher’s every word. It brought uncomfortable questions to mind about his life and how things could have been different. What if he hadn’t been payment for a contract completed, taken off to the Witcher school and subjected to the mutations and training? What if he had aged like a normal man on Skellige, had a family and a normal life? Would he still be the man he is? Could he live a life without the urge to go out on The Path?

His reverie was rudely interrupted by the messy strands of Adela’s chestnut hair tickling his nose. Coinneach lay in wait, feigning ignorance until she took hold of the medallion hanging from his neck. Gently, she picked it up from atop the Witcher’s shirt and Coinneach made his move. Adela’s hair was sent flying in all directions as he blew a great gust of air at her, eliciting a yelp from the girl and fits of laughter from her brother and sister.

“If you’re done playing the jester…” Teodor began sarcastically. “Perhaps you should keep watch! Your bloody eyes are still closed.”

“Monsters know better than to stalk the roads during daytime, Teodor. For that matter, I can hear a rabbit shit in the woods before you see it scamper off.” The Witcher’s words sent the children into yet more fits of laughter. The gentle breeze began to shift while the wagon lazily travelled on its route to Novigrad, bringing the scents and sounds of the forest to Coinneach’s senses. His eyes snapped open.

“Slow the horse, Teodor.” The Skelligan said solemnly.

“What’s the matter?” Teodor replied. He began to turn to face the Witcher before Coinneach placed a hand upon his back.

“Don’t move, keep facing forward. Slow the horse.” Coinneach focussed on the sounds and smells, filtering out the background stimuli. The children watched on in equal parts curiosity and anxiety as their storyteller fell silent. In a low whisper, he began to count. “Two, three...four of them. Four people in the treeline ahead.”

“How the shitting hell can you tell that?”

“I can hear them, nevermind smell the bastards.” Coinneach remained low, doing his best to stay out of eyesight.

“What do we do?!” Teodor replied, his voice cracking with fear.

“Nothing. Stay calm. If they’re up to something, they’ll stop you, check the cart and move on. The ale barrels are hidden well enough under the grain and I doubt they’ll be after anything that simple.”

Coinneach took hold of his woolen bedroll and unravelled it, revealing two longswords contained within. He passed the blanket over to the Adela, the eldest child. “I want you three to huddle up in the corner and stay quiet, don’t move a muscle.” Adela nodded to him silently and directed Stjepan and Elena to follow suit. “Good girl.” Coinneach said calmly. “You’re a brave one. You’d make a good Witcher one day.” Adela flashed him a toothy grin and wrapped the blanket tightly around herself and her siblings.

“Teodor, stay calm and you’ll get through this, alright?” Coinneach took up his steel sword and stowed his gear under hefty sacks of grain.

“Aye...Aye, I can do this.” Teodor said shakily. He risked a glance over his shoulder to find the bed empty, the giant had disappeared silently. The trader couldn’t help but utter let out a whimper.  

Before long, four men burst from the treeline shouting at the top of their lungs. Teodor swallowed his fear and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Halt!” The tallest of the four called. He was clad in a threadbare gambeson and held a chipped sword high in the air, the more expensive equipment setting him apart from the rabble. Teodor nodded anxiously and stopped his mare.

“Customs inspection!” A toothless man proclaimed, grinning as he trained a crossbow on the trader. “Get down from there!”

Teodor nodded and did as he was told. With a grunt he hefted his portly frame down from the bench and was dragged to their leader. The largest of the men stood before him and placed his sword against the trader’s neck.

“Do as we ask and we’ll have no trouble, Mister…?”

“Br-Brooker” Teodor answered

“Ah, Mister Brooker! Well then, I am Mister Samo and my men will be...inspecting your cargo.” A vicious grin played across the bandit’s filthy features. It took everything Teodor had to keep his composure. “You lot! Get to work!” Samo bellowed.

Two of the bandits swarmed towards the wagon while Samo and the toothless man remained with Teodor. Beads of sweat poured down the trader’s face as he watched the men follow their orders. His stomach tied itself into knots with every step they took. Sally reared in fright as the men passed by, causing one to raise his axe at the beast.

“Pate, leave it be!” Samo ordered. Pate slowly lowered his weapon, looking rather disappointed by the command.

“No little nooks or secret spots, eh?” The fat one asked. Teodor briskly shook his head in denial. The bandit gave a shrug in response and slammed his mace into the wagon’s wall, rocking the aged wooden construction. A wail erupted from within at the shock. The bandit turned to Teodor, displaying a wide grin. “What do we have here?!”

“Please...don’t.” Teodor begged. Tears welled in his eyes.

Pate grabbed hold of the children’s shelter and tore it free, revealing the three to the men. Stjepan sobbed quietly while Adela held him and Elena close. Her eyes locked with Pate’s, mustering the fiercest expression she could.

“Three of them!” Pate called to Samo. He watched them from the rear of the cart, playing with the blade of his axe as a sadistic smirk played across his face.

“Hiding things from us, mister Brooker? Unwise…” Samo said. He had the eloquence of an educated man, worlds apart from his compatriots.

“Please, leave them be…” Teodor hung his head low. “They’re my blood.”

“I’m sorry.” Samo began, bringing himself close to the trader’s face. The sickly sweet stench of alcohol invaded Teodor’s nostrils with each word. “If only you had been honest with me in the first place, treated me with some respect…” he slammed a balled fist into the man’s stomach. “...I would have let them be.” He took Teodor by the chin and forced his face up to meet his own. “This is what happens when people lie to me.” The toothless beside them man began to chuckle. “The kiddies will go for a decent price at market, provided we don’t have to damage the goods…”

“Oi!” Pate yelped. A giant hand appeared from the transport’s undercarriage, taking hold of his bare ankle. In a flash, the bandit vanished into the shadows beneath. A gurgling scream followed mere seconds later. The fat man dove to his knees and took hold of Pate’s leg, dragging him back into the sunlight only to find him dead.

“What the fuck happened?!” Samo shouted as he ran to his comrade’s aid. “Judd, what is it?!”

Judd knelt knelt before Pate’s corpse in silence. His throat was sliced open from ear to ear with ruthless efficiency, the wound open to the elements in a gruesome display. Samo could only watch the steadily growing pool of blood stain the dirt road, soaking into the parched soil.

“Who was with you?!” Samo barked at Teodor, gnashing his teeth in rage.

Toothless caught movement from the corner of his eye. A giant of a man rose to his full height, sword in hand on the other side of the wagon. He spat out an unintelligible warning to his comrades before unleashing a bolt at towards his target. The Witcher turned with preternatural speed as the sound of the loosed shot hit his ears. He stood perfectly still, watching the projectile screamed towards him with lethal force. With a swift and deliberate swipe the bolt was sent hurtling skyward with the ringing clash of steel. Toothless was still as a stump, mouth agape in awe as he watched the deflected bolt in terror.

“He ain’t human!” Toothless screamed.

Coinneach nonchalantly placed his huge hand on the wall of the wagon and looked to the three children. “Stay inside and close your eyes.” He said, his tone cold as the sword held in his grip. Judd charged Coinneach with a howl and readied his mace to strike. Coinneach ducked low, spun on the ball of his foot and delivered a vicious punch to Judd’s gut. The bandit let out a wheezing belch, feeling the air rush from his lungs. He dropped to his knees, curling into a fetal position as he coughed and spluttered. Samo came next, unleashing a flurry of slashes with the skill of a trained swordsman. Coinneach leapt to his feet, dancing between blows and deflecting strikes with ease. When an opening came, the Witcher contorted the fingers of his left hand, unleashing a blow of incredible kinetic force. The sudden explosion of magical energy echoed like a war drum. The victim tumbled through the air like a rag doll, crashing unceremoniously into the loose stone wall of a nearby field. Judd struggled back to his feet, wrestling with the pain and took up his mace once more. Coinneach marched confidently towards his foe, holding his sword loosely in preparation to counter attack. The bandit watched the Witcher in abject terror and with one final, desperate action made his move. Clumsily, Judd held the mace aloft as he barreled towards his foe. In the blink of an eye, Coinneach darted to the side. Judd’s momentum couldn’t be stopped in time. He saw the gleaming blade pointed toward him, his every muscle tensed as he stumbled headlong to his death, skewering himself upon Coinneach’s blade.

While the melee continued, Toothless scrambled to reload his weapon. His gnarled fingers reached for the quiver upon his belt and nervously snatched a bolt from within. Teodor tackled him to the ground with a roar and unleashed a flurry of punches upon him. The man was not a trained fighter nor a man prone to violence, but he knew he had to do something. Toothless screeched under the reign of punches collided with his frail body. The bandit searched feverously for a weapon, keeping his free arm over his face, sheltering him from the rain of blows. A small blade slashed out from the prone man’s form, biting deep into Teodor’s arm. The sudden pain was enough to shake the man from his assault. Teodor stumbled onto his side in shock. Toothless took the offensive, preparing for the final blow. The two struggled, Teodor fending off Toothless with his good arm while Toothless forced his weight down upon his prey. Teodor screamed in impotent rage, feeling the dagger inch ever closer to his chest. The chipped surface of the weapon caught on the fibres of his clothing as it began its terrible journey into his flesh. Teodor closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer to whatever gods would listen and prepared for the end. The sight of his children burned itself into his mind. The knife slowly pierced deeper and deeper into his flesh. Teodor’s arm went limp, giving up the fight. He awaited the end.

Coinneach let loose a mighty kick, sending Toothless sprawling with the crack of shattered bones. Before the mewling bandit could say even a word in response the Witcher was upon him, hammering onto his chest with a heavy boot and delivering a devastating slash. The head was divorced from the neck with unbelievable ease as the keenly sharpened blade bit deep with all the force Coinneach could muster. Without a word, the Witcher extended a hand to Teodor and helped him to his feet. The trader cradled his arm with a grimace and did everything he could to avoid looking at the crimson soaked clothing he wore. The Witcher took a cursory glance at the wounds the man bore, silent all the while.

“Go to the wagon, be with your children.” Coinneach began. “In my pack, you’ll find bandages and a simple poultice. I’ll take a look at you soon.”

Teodor nodded nervously. Since he had met the Witcher, he had only seen the warmth in him. Talking and playing with his children, sharing an ale around the campfire, hunting for game when Adela complained about the dried meats she had been given. This man was a far cry from the one he had become acquainted with. His features had hardened, locked into an expression of grim determination and barely restrained rage. If the trader had seen this man without knowing him before, he’d think him as a monster.

“What about you?” He asked.

“See to the children, Teodor.” Coinneach replied with icy finality.

The Witcher returned to Samo. He stared up with blurred vision at the Skelligan. Every joint ached, every muscle screamed out in pain.

“Fucking...fucking witch!” He screamed with slurred speech. The bandit braced against the wall as he stood and scrambled for his weapon, his every step a sign of defiance and hatred to the butcher before him. The Witcher merely stood and watched. Samo launched into a foolhardy assault, throwing every thrust, feint and strike at the Witcher, who he lazily deflected and redirected everything he could muster. In a single fluid motion, Coinneach slipped around a clumsy stab and smashed the pommel of his blade into his face. Bone and cartilage gave way under the thunderous strike, sending Samo reeling back to the floor.

“Now...now.” Samo mumbled, clutching the bloody wreckage of his nose. “We can come to an arrangement, yes? I’m sure I have something I could offer a man such as yourself.”

Coinneach stood over his prone opponent, watching his prey twitch and cower before him.

“What did you say you would do with those children?”

Samo’s eyes opened wide. How could he have heard what he whispered to the fat little trader?!

“I...I don’t know what you mean!” He yelled in a desperate bluff.

“Sell them at market?”

Samo remained silent as Coinneach looked deep into his eyes. He felt as if his very soul was being torn from him as the Witcher’s gaze burned every part of him away, leaving only the pathetic wretch he had become.

“You know. I was going to let you live…” The Witcher began. His thick Skelligan accent forcing each word down on Samo with crushing force. “but this is what happens when people lie to me.”

Samo’s eyes went wide, his face contorted into a scream. Coinneach’s sword flashed out with clinical accuracy, slicing deep into the chest and silenced him. A wordless scream was all the bandit could muster as his vision slipped away.

[sonsoffenris]

The reverberating clatter of steel echoed through the dilapidated ruin. Blades crashed in rapid succession, beating a deadly tattoo. Two figures clashed within the abandoned cottage’s interior, moving with incredible speed. The duellists circled each other, deftly darting between broken walls and rotted furniture while probing each other’s defences. Kamil grunted as she changed her stance and searched feverishly for a weakness in Coinneach’s defence. Her opponent on the other hand easily deflected the incoming blows. Without a sound of exertion, Coinneach’s sword flashed out. Kamil launched into a pirouette, using the burst of momentum to throw herself backwards. With the sudden shock of cold steel tapping her head, she realised she had moved too late. The flat of Coinneach’s blade withdrew before she could mount a counter attack. Coinneach chuckled as he shifted back into a ready stance. “Keep your guard up, little Witcher.” His tone was calm and even, cold almost. Kamil felt the bile rise in her throat at his comment. “Stop fucking calling me that!” She replied with contempt. “Make me.” Coinneach said with a dismissive shrug. Kamil roared and threw herself into a charge, raising her weapon high. Frustration and anger clouded her vision as she closed the distance between the two. Coinneach dropped his guard with a sly smirk and made his move. Lunging clear of his opponent’s trajectory with incredible speed, he brought himself to Kamil’s side. With a quick movement he thrust out with a kick, driving his foot into the back of the young woman’s knee and sending her tumbling to the ground. “Take a moment to rest, Kamil.” Coinneach sheathed his sword and placed it against a barely standing wall. The young Witcher remained on her knees in silence, staring down at the dirt floor beneath her. Her knuckles were white as her grip tightened like a vice around her sword hilt. Her body ached. It felt as if days had passed as the Skelligan sparred with her, sparing her no quarter when she made an error. Kamil could feel the aches and pains of swollen tissue and bruises develop upon her body. Nothing she could do was good enough for him. Even when she learned one lesson she received no praise from him. Instead, the next lesson would begin, and with that came more punishment. “On your feet, girl.” Her mentor said. It was akin to a distant echo to Kamil’s ears as she lost herself within the depths of her mind. Images of her peers laughing, stones being thrown at her, the disdainful looks from the master Witchers and the quiet contempt of Coinneach plagued her thoughts, burning through her conscious mind like a raging fire. As Coinneach opened his mouth to speak, Kamil rose to her feet and turned to him wordlessly. The older Witcher could see the fire burning in her snake like eyes. Kamil bared her teeth before she opened her mouth, unleashing a blood curdling scream. “Kam-!” Coinneach spluttered. The name caught in his throat as his ward barreled into his torso, knocking the air from his lungs. Barely able to remain on his feet, Coinneach looked down to see Kamil’s sword still firmly in her grasp. Without another thought he cast her off with all of his strength, slamming her into a nearby wall. The sheer force of the momentum caused the aging stonework to give way, sending Kamil sprawling in a hail of rough cut masonry and dust. “Damn it. Girl!” Coinneach shouted with laboured breaths. He turned to find Kamil already back on her feet, her eyes still burning bright . Howling, she made for another charge and readied her sword for a lethal strike. Coinneach’s body acted on instinct, spreading his feet apart in preparation to meet his foe. The sword cut a shimmering arc through the air towards Coinneach’s neck. A hair’s breadth from tearing the Witcher’s skin, his hands took hold of Kamil’s, taking control of the weapon from her. With a lightning fast twist of the wrist, Kamil shrieked and released her grip. The loss of the weapon didn’t stop her, however. She thrashed out at Coinneach, scratching, punching, kicking, and gouging at him. The elder Witcher roared in frustration, outstretching his arms and enveloping Kamil’s form. The apprentice thrashed in his grip, smashing Coinneach’s shins and knees as she tried as best she should to gain purchase. Kamil lashed out, smashing her forehead into Coinneach’s nose with a crack. Flesh ruptured under the assault, letting forth an intense stream of blood, flowing onto the struggling pair. Coinneach closed his eyes tight in an effort to suppress the pain as his eyes began to well up. It was not the first time the old Witcher’s nose had been broken, but certainly this was the most unusual occasion. Coinneach held on for dear life as Kamil’s assault gave way and she fell silent. Coinneach loosened his grip on his ward before the young woman wrapped her arms around him, pulling herself close to his large frame. For a moment the two stood there in silence, Coinneach in bewilderment and Kamil in emotional turmoil. Kamil’s body began to spasm as she sobbed into Coinneach’s armour. The elder Witcher stood as still as a statue, lost as to what to do. He searched through his memory, digging down to the memories of his family. They were there, though vague and stripped away by the Trials of the Grasses. With an uncomfortable grunt, Coinneach placed a hand on Kamil’s head. “I-It’s okay, little Witcher. It’s alright.” He said as softly as his booming voice could. “Come on, let’s sit down.” The Skelligan carefully guided the still crying Kamil to the ground wordlessly and tried to pull himself free from her grasp. To his discomfort, the woman’s grip tightened further with every attempt. With a sigh of capitulation, Coinneach wrapped his arms around her once again. Something stirred within him when Kamil’s sobbing began to slow and she nestled further into his arms. With a chuckle, Coinneach allowed himself to relax fully as he watched his young ward. Perhaps he was feeling something akin to what a father feels towards his daughter, or a bear caring for its cub. He lost track of time while the two sat in silence, taking solace in each other’s company.

[sonsoffenris]

Hey look, it’s Kamil! Snipe is the hero that came up with that character. go give her a follow and have a look at her art, she’s seriously talented!

A female witcher. 

[sonsoffenris]

Cost of Labour

“The job’s done.” Coinneach said matter-of-factly. His statement was followed by the dull thump of bloodied hessian sack, his proof of a completed hunt. The Witcher stood awkwardly hunched over within Alderman Eadgar’s shoddily built hut, hanging his head low under a beam of rotten wood. The dimly lit domicile was clearly built for the elderly man’s hunchbacked figure rather than the towering frame of the Skelligan mutant.  

“Excellent!” The Alderman responded. His joints creaked as he rubbed his hands together in glee. “I knew I could count on ye, witch man. Folks might talk ill of your type, but you’ve never done wrong by me and mine.”

“Coinneach, my name is Coinneach. Now, my payment, if you please.” The Witcher’s tone was calm and assertive, showing little in the way of appreciation of Eadgar’s kind words. In his experience, many thought showering Witchers with praise and adoration in a pathetic attempt to gain a discount or dodge payment altogether. He watched the Alderman carefully as the frail man ran gnarled fingers through his wiry silver beard.

“Hm? Oh. Yes, o’ course, Mr. Conn-ack!” Coinneach suppressed a wince at Eadgar’s pronunciation. The Alderman hobbled to a fireplace before returning his gaze to the Witcher. “Would you mind…” He said, gesturing for Coinneach to look away. The giant didn’t respond, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Eadgar. An old scar on the Witcher’s lower back began to itch at the Alderman’s request, causing him to grimace as the memories accompanying it surfaced. The elder shrugged and and carefully removed a stone from the ramshackle construction, revealing a small alcove filled with coins stacked in disorganised columns. The mutant’s enhanced senses picked up the clink of every coin counted and dropped into a small pouch. Before long, the village elder turned and presented the weather beaten pouch to Coinneach with weak, weedy arms.

“You’re twenty coins short.”

Eadgar’s eye’s shot open. “I don’t know yer talking about.”

“The arrangement was fifty. There’s thirty in the bag.”

“Ye haven’t bloody counted it!”

A sly smile crept across the Witcher’s features. “I can tell. Did you think you could cheat me?”

The Alderman’s eyes darted about the room as he searched for a response. “Well. ye returned so soon!” He blurted out, desperately thinking on his feet. “Ye mentioned that if it was a simple job it won’t take long. I’m just paying for the time ye put in!”

Coinneach lazily placed a hand on the low beam above him with a sigh. He gave it a pull, causing the structure to groan in protest. “My time doesn’t concern you, old man. You pay for the work.That’s how Witcher contracts work.”

“Contract? I didn’t sign nothin’” Eadgar said dismissively.

“Can you read or write?” Coinneach pulled on the beam again. A crack rang out through the building as the timbers strained. “You agreed to fifty, I’m taking fifty.”

Eadgar swallowed audibly as he waited for the structure to fall down around him. “B…But it was only a few drowners, Witch man! Is it really worth fifty?”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what a monster should cost?!” Coinneach roared. In the distance, he could hear a villager scream in fright at the outburst. “Tell me, how many drowners have you killed? What about vampires, wraiths or trolls? How much would you charge?” The Witcher bared his teeth in anger.

“Take the thirty or be off with ye!” The Alderman responded, his voice wavering. The old man’s bark would be worse than his toothless bite, Coinneach knew that. The smell of pure fear began to emanate from Eadgar,  just detectable under the scents of his unwashed body and stale piss from a bedpan stowed under a filthy bed. He made for a drawer on the other side of the hut and reached into its gloomy interior. Coinneach took a single thunderous step forward, crossing the room effortlessly and placed a hand on his shoulder. The Alderman almost collapsed under the sudden weight pressing down on him. His heart beat intensely as his body stiffened. From Coinneach’s higher vantage point he could see the familiar sheen of a blade within the confines of the drawer.

“You can try it, but I warn you now that it won’t end well for you.” Coinneach said softly, mere inches away from the Alderman’s ear. The words elicited a whimper from the elder as he closed his eyes, waiting for the Witcher to end him. Images flashed through his mind of the myriad ways Coinneach could end him here and now, not to mention how little effort it would take compared to taking the heads that the sack contained. How foolish the old man had been to listen to the council of the village drunks on the foolishness of Witchers…

“You know, the corpses are still out there, old man.” Coinneach said in a menacing tone. He lessened his grip on him, allowing him to slither free of the Witcher’s grasp.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A few corpses left out in the open are an easy meal for Necrophages. Give it a few days or so and the ghouls will find their dinner and make a lair. Then they’ll be digging up that pitiful little graveyard and before long…”

“Enough!” The Alderman yelped. “Bastard. You’re threatening the village elder!

“I’m threatening a frail little prick who would rather save a few Orens than pay for services rendered.” Coinneach barked. “Now, give me the full payment and this doesn’t get any worse.”

The Alderman flinched under the verbal assault, shrinking away from the mutant towering over him. With a deep breath, he finally relented. He crept back over to the coin stash and filled it with the missing coinage without taking his eyes off of the Witcher. Placing it on a table, he darted away from the money and left Coinneach to retrieve it. A gauntleted hand scooped up the pouch and the Witcher turned to leave.

“My thanks.” The Witcher said grimly.

“Get out.” Eadgar mumbled, exhausted.

“Other Witchers will hear of this.” Coinneach warned. “Next time there’s trouble, don’t expect any of my kind to be chomping at the bit to take on any work.”

Like a cornered animal, the elder lashed out. His arms waved manically in frustration as he berated the Witcher. “We’ll be fine without your lot sticking your nose in, you ploughing freak!”

“We’ll see.” Coinneach replied calmly as he bent down under the doorframe.

As he stretched out to his full height in the open air, the Witcher looked over the crowd huddled around the hut, pitchforks and rusty blades at the ready. Coinneach spat onto the ground, watching the reaction of the mob as they backed away. With each step the Witcher made, the crowd parted before him like an old story of the seas granted safe passage to the great hero. Before long, Coinneach cleared the throngs and calmly mounted his horse. With a gentle kick the brown mare set off at a gallop, leaving the bewildered masses in the dust.

                                                      *****

Kamil took a rag to the gleaming blade of her silver sword, cleaning away the reeking oils coating it. Her first encounter with a Noonwraith had taken more from her than she wished to admit and she did everything she could to hide it from her mentor. Coinneach knelt before the corporeal remains of the creature, carefully sifting through the pile of ash like material curiously.

“So?” Kamil asked.

“Your left side was open.” Coinneach replied, keeping his eyes on their quarry. Kamil pursed her lips in annoyance.

“It was a fucking monster. It doesn’t know swordsmanship.”

“Doesn’t matter. Never take that chance. You of all people should realise that.” Coinneach looked up at his ward, his harsh features softening as he saw understanding dawn on her scarred features. He got to his feet and softly placed a hand on Kamil’s shoulder. The contact was barely perceptible to her, too lost in thought as her fingers unconsciously traced along the leather straps of her eye patch and onto the marred flesh of the cheek. She felt every groove and contour caused by the acidic poison as it snaked its way across her body, eating away everything in its path.

“Kamil…”

She snapped out of her reverie with a start at the mention of her name. Noting the look of concern from Coinneach, she quickly asserted herself and shrugged off her mentors hand; following up with a look of irritation. “What now, then?” She asked.

“Well, I reckon you should pay the Alderman a visit.”

“By myself?” Kamil said, stunned. “Why?”

“Because you need to learn how to deal with your own contracts. This was your kill, so you can take the reward. Now…” Coinneach retrieved a small book from his jerkin and deciphered his barely legible script. “Let the old bastard know that the wraith was a lassie called Illya, he may know something about her and let her family know. Make sure you get the full payment, too, empty the fucking purse and count it in front of him if you have to.”

“Old bastard?” The young Witcher asked, bemused by Coinneach’s harsh tone.

“I’ll tell you about it another time, little Witcher, now get going.” He replied curtly. Kamil cringed at the utterance of the title he had given her. “And if there’s any trouble, you let him know Coinneach is waiting for your quick return. The Witcher added, letting slip a wry smile. Kamil nodded and made off through the sea of ripe grain toward the village, mulling over her mentor’s words as she departed.

(Why yes, I am awful at titles)

[sonsoffenris]

Merrick sighed with satisfaction as he gazed at the night sky. The stars shone brilliantly while the full moon cast the forest clearing in an eerie white light. With a belly full of meat and wine, he lay down upon the mossy ground beside a crackling fire. Radomil and Amis soon followed suit, having had their fill of the feast and organising the day’s takings. Coin pouches, weapons, food, drink and trade commodities were laid out neatly in the shelter of a fallen tree to be spirited away and fenced come sunrise. Merrick turned to his side, staring at the loot gleefully. Gold and jewels had their endless charms, but he would trade his entire share for one item in the haul; a single sword. It was a rare beauty, unlike any he had seen before. From the point, sharp as a Hapry’s talons came a razor edged blade devoid of any chips or scratches. No hammer marks or corrosion stained the highly polished metal. The quillons were pointed forward along the blade like claws grasping at its prey. Merrick’s eyes followed the lines of the sheathed weapon from end to end and took in every detail of the engraved leather carefully before coming eye to eye with the pommel, the grisly visage of a snarling bear’s head. His eyes began to fail him as fatigue set in. His eyelids heavy, Merrick relaxed himself and let sleep set in; all the while imagining taking the weapon for his own. Surely with a blade like that he could strike fear into the heart of many a traveller. Any quarry would be his without any bloodshed once his prey set eyes on it. Merrick’s eyes shot open as a loud crack came from the forest. The horses of the gang’s victims snorted and shied away from the source of the commotion, pulling their reins taught against a tree stump. The three men leapt to their feet, taking up arms in a perimeter around their sputtering fire. Merrick and Radomid peered out into the gloom, straining to see anything in the darkness while Amis haphazardly readied a torch.

“My apologies, sirs!” Said the shadows. “Could I trouble you for a place by the fire?”

Merrick cleared his throat and looked to his two accomplices, both frozen in fear.

“Show yourself!” He exclaimed. “I fear I cannot extend my hospitality to a voice!”

The shadow replied with a sinister chuckle as a figure emerged into the moonlight. The white light did little to reveal the visitor’s shrouded features, but for the sheathed longsword held in its grasp.

“Much better!” Merrick said, his tone relaxing. “If you would be so kind as to hand over that razor you are more than welcome to our gathering.”

“Of course!” Replied the stranger as he handed his weapon to his host cheerfully. “My name is Fingal, of Ard Skellig.”

Merrick motioned to his two compatriots to lower their weapons. “I’m Merrick, there’s is Amis and the bald ‘un there is Radomil.” The introduction was met with an indignant snort from the tall, bald man.

“A pleasure!” Fingal said warmly before settling into the nook of a tall oak. He cast a stealthy glance at the collection of loot a few steps away from him. Amis quickly threw a filthy blanket over the treasure.

“What are you doing out here. stranger?” Merrick asked. “Folks say all sorts of beasts call this place home.” A barely perceivable smile danced across Merricks features, followed by a similar look from his two compatriots.

“Merely passing through!” Fingal reached into his cloak as he spoke. Quick as lightning, Radomil took up a rusty mace, preparing himself to strike. Merrick made a quick wave of his hand and Radomil lowered the weapon slowly. After a pregnant pause, Fingal retrieved a wine skin from within the woolen folds and threw it to Merrick. “I must admit, I became somewhat lost travelling through the woods. Praise Melitele I came across you fellows!”

Merrick bit down on the cork stopper and tore from the skin, staring at Fingal intently all the while. He could get the sense of a person quickly after his years dealing with all sorts of criminals, killers, and con merchants, but this man was an enigma to him. There was no outward sign of the stranger posing a threat and yet Fingal’s every move set Merrick on edge. The hood covering the man’s features frustrated him to no end. Taking a long swig of sweet wine from the skin he lobbed it to Amis, rolling his eyes in embarrassment as Amis barely caught the container and spilled its contents over his stained shirt.

“Take down that hood, stranger.” Radomil said forcefully. Fingal took note of the rows of missing and broken teeth adorning the bald giant’s mouth as he spoke. The man had seen his share of brawls.

“I apologise, gentlemen.” Fingal replied anxiously. “An old war wound from my youth. Quite a mess up here, I assure you!” He chuckled.. “I prefer to keep myself covered, don’t want to scare folks off, after all.” Amis and Radomil chuckled, warming to their new guest. Merrick on the other hand remained stoic, painting his face with a false smile. “In any case, what brings you three you to these gods forsaken woods?”

“Trade.” Merrick answered, quick as a whip. His two accomplices remained silent, busying themselves with drink. “We’re on the way to Vergen and decided to travel on rather than stay at the inn a while back.”

“I see.” Fingal said thoughtfully. “Novice merchants, I assume?”

Merrick bristled. “What gives you that idea?” He asked, brushing a hand through his thin, greasy hair.

“Well, a more seasoned traveller would have better knowledge of the land.”

“I suppose you’re right…” Merrick replied with a nervous chuckle. “What about you, then?”

“Oh, I’m just an old drifter these days. Make my living moving from town to town telling tall tales, doing odd jobs, that sort of thing.”

“Stories?” Radomil blurted, sending red tinted spittle flying toward Fingal. “How about repayin’ our generosity with a yarn?”

Merrick nodded with consent. “Yes! Give us some entertainment, stranger,” He had him now. He suppressed a predatory smirk as he watched Fingal. Surely he would lose his nerve.

Fingal stroked the thick bristles covering his chin in thought. “I wonder…” With a click of his fingers, the stanger’s half covered features brightened. “I have a new tale. One I haven’t had the chance to put to an audience yet! Would that suffice?”

Amis stopped draining the wine skin for a moment. “By all means!” He shouted, adding a loud belch before returning to the drink.  

“Very well then. Settle yourselves and get comfortable, friends! I shall tell you the tale of the hunter!” Fingal announced with a booming voice.

“Not long ago, a simple hunter travelled through parts not so different to these.” He spread his arms wide, motioning to the surroundings. “He searched for new quarry. deer, boar, anything to feed his family better than simple game and hare. Desperation drove him deeper into the woods. Trees and bushes pushed in around him and before long he found himself lost and alone, his horse would carry him no further.”

“Get to the good bit!” Radomil heckled. Merrick smiled wryly, watching for Fingal’s response.

“Patience!” The storyteller said with a laugh. “You’re more impatient than a toddler about to piss himself!” Radomil put on a faux expression of injury before unleashing a hearty laugh.

“As I was saying. The hunter went on alone, deeper and deeper into the darkness. Suddenly, a bellowing screech filled the air!”

Fingal suddenly animated, jumping to his feet while maintaining his shroud. Radomil applauded while Merrick and Amis flinched, grasping for their weapons before Fingal continued.

“From the shadows came the slender figure of a woman. For a moment the hunter was stunned by her beauty before her face was revealed by light of the full moon. One side was that of fair, ivory skin and flowing blonde hair. The other was the image of death itself; skin burned and scarred, stretched thin across her ragged face and a single eye that blazed like a burning coal! She wailed again, the hunter recoiled in terror and took to his heels. Charging as fast as his legs could carry him, he found himself in familiar ground. Praising the gods under his breath he looked for his horse. The faithful steed has disappeared and with it his salvation. The man fell to his knees, unable to go on. Not only had his escape eluded him, but his weapon. A beautiful sword-”

Merrick’s eyes went wide. He looked over at the treasure haul, noticing the unique weapon still visible over the hastily placed blanket. This has to be a coincidence... He thought to himself. Looking down at Fingal’s sword, realisation hit him. The blade in his lap, with it’s engraved leather sheath and expertly crafted blade. Finished with a bear’s head on its pommel.

“-passed down his family for generations. A snarling bear’s head adorned the heirloom;  the mark of his once noble family. Death came for him soon after, and it is said his spirit still haunts these woods, vengeful and angry. Seeking his weapon and the thieves who took it. In fact, it is said that the sword is cursed, forever dooming those who come across it….” Fingal finished his tale with a bow and as he raised his head he met the gaze of the his audience, weapons drawn and ready.

“So, what now?” Merrick barked. “We hand over this ‘cursed’ sword? Are you the vengeful spirit?” He laughed heartily with his men. “So the horse we…nicked the other day was yours?”

“It was.” Fingal replied. The rasping, cheerful voice was gone, replaced by the rumbling growl of a younger man. He reached to his chest and removed the pin holding his cloak in place. The garment dropped to the floor silently, revealing dark chainmail nestled under leather armour and on top of the layers hung a large steel medallion in the visage of a ravenous ursine beast. Merrick took a step away from the stranger and raised his weapon before a scream halted him with a start. Amis stood with his mouth agape as his stare was met my Fingal’s snake like eyes, glowing bright orange in the gloom.

“What are you….” Amis whispered.

“Witchman!” Radomil barked.

“Three of us against one freak?” Merrick said nervously. “You supposed t’ scare us?! Bastard doesn’t even have a weapon!”

“Oh, you shouldn’t be afraid of me. Not at all.” Fingal spread his arms wide, opening himself to ahis foes. “Her, however.” He pointed behind Radomid. “Her, you

be afraid of,”

Radomid turned, locking eyes with ‘her’ just in time for a long, razor sharp blade to pierce his throat. The bald thief clutched at his neck and the sword embedded in it, slicing open his hands as blood flowed freely from the wound. The last image to enter his mind was the monster of Fingal’s story. The  weapon’s owner gazed at him as he futilely gasped for air. Her half burned face contorted into a scowl as the blade sank deeper, punching through his spine. Her glowing eye remained fixed on Radomil as he went limp and crashed to the ground. Merrick made to turn to the new threat when Fingal contorted his fingers, projecting a blast of force that crashed into the campfire. Flaming debris and glowing ash hurtling through the air. Amis yelped as the fragments flew into his eyes. He landed on his knees screaming in pain, hysterically clawing at his burning eyeballs. A polished blade coated in crimson flashed in the moonlight, casting a shining arc through the darkness before slashing into the screaming figure.

Fingal crashed into Merrick, tackling him onto the ground and hammering down vicious punches onto his foe. Merrick raised his arms across his face in a desperate bid to defend himself. He could feel his forearms swell under the force of the impacts almost immediately, forcing a scream from his lips. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, an object rolled into view. Still holding back the torrent of blows from Fingal, Merrick stared at the object with horror. As his eyes focussed he picked out the details; ruddy skin, a large nose, a mouth hanging open, and blackened eyelids screwed shut. Amis.

“Enough, please! Mercy!” Merrick wailed. Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes.

Fingal was relentless in his assault. With inhuman strength the threw merrick’s defences aside, opening his foe to his next strike.

“You beg?!” He roared. “Did the people you robbed and killed beg? Did you show them mercy?”

“I..I…” Merrick choked on his words. Mewling and screaming in fear, he wordlessly begged for his life.

“Coinneach, just end it.” Came a voice from the dark. It was harsh and deep, yet unmistakably female.

The Witcher closed his eyes and nodded before he looked down at Merrick. For a single moment the thief thought he would be spared before Coinneach’s fist slammed down. Merrick’s head smashed off of the ground beneath him. There was a sickening crack and the battered thief’s eyes went wide. The moans and yells of protestation were cut off soon after as a blade punched into the thief’s heart. With a final gasp, Merrick was gone.

Coinneach got to his feet with a grunt and placed a dagger back into its sheath.

“Excellent timing.” Coinneach quipped.

“I couldn’t stand any more of that fucking story. Why even go through with that?” The woman responded. She took up Coinneach’s stolen blade and admired it as her mentor spoke.

“For information.” He replied matter of factly. “If I didn’t get a good look at what we were dealing with, we’d never have noticed this.” Coinneach kicked Amis’ body out of the way unceremoniously, revealing a crudely carved wooden block shaped into a three toed foot.

“A hoax?” She spat. “

tricked the villagers?”

“It’s easy to fool simple folk, Kamil. Especially when all manner of outlaws and monsters have them living in fear.” Coinneach marched to Kamil and reached out for his sword, which Kamil evaded.

“You know…” She removed the weapon from its sheath and gave it a swing, feeling the weight. The blade sang sweetly as it sliced through the air. “I could get used to a fancy razor like this.”

“I’ll pass these on to you one of these days.” Coinneach replied with a smile. He deftly snatched the sword and sheath from Kamil’s grip and placed them together in a fluid motion.

Kamil let out a sarcastic sigh. “What now?”

“We gather the loot, saddle it on these horses and take them back to town.”

“You’ve got to be kidding…” Kamil said quietly.

“Do I often joke? Get to work, little Witcher.”

[sonsoffenris]

The rocky crags of Ard Skellig spread out for miles around Coinneach like the bare spine of a wyrm of legend. Wind blasted through the chasms and valleys of razor sharp stone, battering the sparse vegetation clinging for dear life to their perch. The gale brought a plethora of scents to the Witcher’s nostrils; the ever pervasive salt of the sea, kelp and seaweed drying on the shore, and the unwelcome cloying scent of death. Not all that uncommon for the inhospitable coastline and the rough waters, however the overwhelming power of the stench set it apart. Coinneach stood in the open, unlocking his enhanced senses to study the world around him. Pushing aside the roaring waves and howling wind, he focussed further. Below the squawk of seabirds, an altogether different sound could be heard; the voices of women singing and laughing. The melody sailed on the wind with perfect clarity, every note seamlessly complimented the next, never a key out of place or faltering vibrato. The greatest performers serving in the highest courts of the land would sell their souls to come even close to the talent these vocalists displayed. Listening brought warmth to Coinneach’s weary soul and as each moment that passed, it beckoned him to come closer. He had found his quarry. Coinneach tightened his sword belt, bringing the hilt within his hands reach. From his shoulder the bear headed pommel stood tall, the azure blue stones mounted in its eyes watching its surroundings. The hunter retrieved a medallion from within his jerkin. Feeling the familiar shapes and marks of the snarling bear head, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The frigid air stung his chest, awakening his body to the hunt. His heart began beating a steady rhythm, gradually quickening at the prospect of combat. With a grim smirk, Coinneach cast aside the heavy fur cloak draped across his shoulders and set off towards the source of the intoxicating ballad.

After vaulting the outcropping of another rock formation, Coinneach came to a cliff edge. Crouching precariously close to the verge, he surveyed the sight before him. The rough seas were placated by a wall of black rock as it entered a serene natural bay. The calm, crystal clear waters lapped lazily upon a sandy shore where three feminine figures could be seen, waist deep in the freezing cold shallows. Their song continued in perfect harmony as the trio looked to each other. Each voice complimented the other, weaving a complex tapestry of emotion and suggestion. The urge to forgo all thought and go to them grew ever stronger the closer he moved. Suggestions of comfort and love, images of new joys and sensations; a promise of ecstasy forced their way into his mind. The Witcher’s medallion vibrated harshly in response to the lament, indicating the strong magic at work. A devilish smile played across Coinneach’s lips as he unbuckled his sword belt, removing the weapon from his back before sliding down the steep angle of the cliff. A layer of loose shale provided a safe yet somewhat uncomfortable path down and soon he found himself on the shore, some distance away from the singers. The remains of small boats were strewn across the shore around him, dashed against rocks and left to the elements. The musky scent of rotting wood permeated the area, it seemed the vessels had been here for some time. He watched the women from his new vantage point, peering from behind a smashed hull. More information on his prey was needed, however. He’d have to move in closer.

A short distance form the trio, Coinneach dropped his sword. The melody stopped abruptly as the singers turned to the source of the alien sound. Their shocked expressions quickly softened as the raven haired beauties looked the approaching visitor up and down. Each had skin the colour of polished ivory, a far cry from the weather beaten complexion of the men and women of the Skellige Isles. Ruby red eyes followed his every move as he approached. One of the maidens reciprocated, slithering through the water to meet him. She raised her arms towards him, revealing her bare breasts and beckoning him closer with a predatory glint in her eye. Each step caused Coinneach’s medallion to pull and strain at the chain hanging it around his neck as if trying to free itself from the grasp of the forces at work. From his position, imperfections became more apparent. Once slender fingers now showed elongated claws, sharpened to a needle point and upon her slender waist, scales blended into her milky skin. The Witcher reached for the straps of his leather jerkin, slowly loosening the ties and opening his armour as he edged closer. The woman’s face twisted to a wide grin, displaying a row of sharp teeth. She burst from the water with incredible speed lunging toward the man before her. Leathery wings breached the surface followed by a scaled, serpentine body. The midday sun danced across her scales, reflecting a myriad of intense shades of blue and green. As the creature made its move, her human countenance fell away, revealing ashen grey flesh tightly stretched across a lithe body, a row spines the length of a man’s arm travelling along her back, and her once soft features were replaced with a malformed face akin to a bat. Coinneach stopped in his footsteps.

“Sirens.” He muttered, confirming his suspicions. Coinneach reached inside his battered jerkin and retrieved a dagger from within, sending it hurtling toward the siren in one smooth motion. The poison coated weapon embedded itself deep within the siren’s chest with a dull thump. The simple iron tool was no silver sword, but in conjunction with the toxic mixture applied to the blade it would at least slow her down. The impact was followed by a blood curdling howl that would stop even the hardiest warrior in their tracks. The monster crashed to the ground, flailing wildly in an attempt to remove the thorn in its side. The Witcher took the response as a small victory as he sprinted back to his sword. With a deafening screech another siren closed in. Her leathery wings beat a steady rhythm, granting her incredible speed. Without a misstep, Coinneach turned on his heel and arranged the fingers of his left hand into the sign of Igni. Thrusting his arm toward his target, a jolt of magical energy surged through his muscles before bursting forth from the Witcher’s hand, unleashing a gout of flame. The enchanted fire struck hard, immolating the siren in mid flight. Flesh quickly blackened as the she wailed in pain. The remaining seawater flash boiled on her skin, leaving white streaks of salt across her body as the siren barrelled through the air; crashing into the ground as a charred husk. Returning to the resting place of his weapon he quickly took hold of the grip and removed the scabbard with a quick swing. Suddenly the hunter slammed into the sand face first as the third of the trio collided with him. Claws gained purchase in his armour as the third siren followed him down, her full body weight crashing on top of him. Coinneach and the monster wrestled desperately for control of the situation. Tumbling across the beach, his attacker’s claws tore away the layers of leather and began pulling apart the layer chainmail beneath. With a grunt of exertion the Witcher thrust his head back, smashing into the siren’s maw. The beast’s claws loosened their grip in shock, giving Coinneach time to throw off the monster. Before the siren could counterattack, the Witcher was upon her, straddling her torso and smashing his sword’s pommel into her face. The monster flailed in panic under the thunderous assault as Coinneach ignored a stray claw slicing his brow open, continuing to brutally rain down hammer blows. Blood rapidly flowed from the wound, masking the Witcher’s features in deep crimson. Finally the siren regained the upper hand as her tail whipped out, sending Coinneach sprawling onto his back. The monster coiled her lower half and launched into another assault, flying into the air and began to dive toward the Witcher with wings outstretched. Her eyes opened wide in terror as she witnessed the Witcher leap to his feet and ready his sword, the shimmering blade in position for a mighty thrust. She desperately flapped her wings in a futile attempt to avoid the certain doom shooting towards her. Alas her momentum couldn’t be stopped in time. The keenly sharpened point slid into the siren’s chest, the force of the beast’s descent forcing it inch upon inch deeper into her flesh. She looked down at the Witcher, bracing himself against the impact and returning her stare. His viper like eyes betrayed nothing, no anger, no hatred, no fury, not even pity. Opening her toothy maw wide, she snapped at her killer in a last ditch effort to end his life. Coinneach remained motionless as the siren gnashed her teeth inches from his face. Every bite slowed with each repetition as the beast’s blood drained steadily. Before long, she let out a final rasping breath and went limp. Coinneach spat as he used his boot to remove the corpse from his sword. The phlegm marred the golden sand with sanguine blood and saliva. One more to go. The hunter thought to himself. He walked towards the still writhing mass of scales as it struggled to remove his dagger from her flesh. Returning to her human form, she looked at Coinneach in terror, wordlessly begging for her life. The Witcher simply stood sentinel over her, wiping the blood from his vision and into his sand encrusted hair. As he took up his sword in both hands realisation hit her like a sledgehammer, there was no stopping this. Her glamour dropped away as she screamed in defiance at the fate laid out before her. The silver sword sang through the air, effortlessly slicing through the siren’s neck. Silence soon followed as her head tumbled onto the ground. Coinneach knelt, relaxing his muscles and allowing his breathing to slow. The quiet in the moments after battle was more beautiful than any song could ever hope to be. Removing a tattered sack from his jerkin, the Witcher wordlessly began the grisly task of collecting trophies.

His ears perked at the sound of movement on the sand. Coinneach cursed his foolhardiness. Three sirens, only three. Sirens live in packs of three or more and… From the shadows of a hollow in the cliffs came another half human, larger than the previous three. A shock of flame red framed her features, contorted in rage.

“An Ekhidna.”

The Witcher barely had time to take up his weapon before she was upon him. The Ekhidna shot through the air, moving more and more rapidly with every beat of her wings. Taking hold of Coinneach’s arm she lifted him from his feet. He winced as his shoulder was torn from its socket with an audible crack. Taking a sharp turn, she cast off her prey and watched in delight as he was catapulted through the air, his flight ended abruptly, slamming into the graveyard of boats he passed earlier. A sickening snap and lances of extreme pain overtook him as Coinneach crashed to the ground limp. Breathing raggedly the Witcher fought down the stomach churning sensation of broken ribs scraping together, dragging himself to the the shelter of an overturned rowboat. He released the death grip on his weapon as he furiously searched through belt pouches and hidden pockets. The sounds of the Ekhidna raging outside was deafening as it tore apart the rotten hulls in search of her prey. Every second brought the thunderous cacophony closer. With a smile of relief Coinneach produced a vial of red fluid and tore away the cork with his teeth, quaffing the liquid in a single gulp. The viscous potion warmed his body as it slipped down his throat and travelled to his battered organs. The flesh knitting mixture known to the Witcher schools as Swallow would aid him given enough time but for now its pain numbing qualities would have to suffice. Discarding the vial, Coinneach turned his attention to his left arm. Cradling it gently, he took a deep lungful of air before wrenching the joint back into its socket. Even the Swallow couldn’t dull the intense pain. His eyes screwed shut as he thrashed, straining against the urge to scream until he could bare it no longer. Coinneach’s lips parted and let loose a pained howl. The storm of fury suddenly stopped. The Witcher cursed under his breath and gripped his weapon tight.

The flimsy hull suddenly exploded open, sending splinters raining down upon Coinneach as  sunlight flooded his shelter. The Ekhidna slammed down onto the boat’s hull with a manic grin on her still human features. Coinneach raised his left hard towards his foe as her venom coated claws tore through the air toward him. Even a single blow would mean his end in this state. Contorting his fingers into the sign of Quen, Coinneach forced all of his energy into his magical abilities. The Claws bearing down upon him collided with a barrier of blazing orange light, stopping the blow dead in its tracks. Undaunted by the new obstacle, his foe continued her assault, raining strike after strike on the wall of magic. Coinneach’s muscles burned as he faltered under the assault. A warm trickle of blood began to flow as his strength was drained to fuel the arcane bulwark. He wouldn’t last much longer if this continued. In a last ditch effort, the Witcher abandoned his shield. The conjured creation shattered like glass before dissipating entirely. As the next swing bore down on him, Coinneach pushed himself to his feet and made his last stand. His sword flashed out in a wide arc, connecting with the attacking claw and hacked it from the wrist in a shower of dark blood. The Ekhidna reared back in shock while Coinneach used the momentum of the blow to turn into a graceful pirouette and prepare his next strike. The blade trailed a thin stream of blood behind it as it travelled to its next target, slashing a deep gash through his foe’s face. Immediately halting the arc, he changed his grip and thrust forward with all his strength roaring in frustration. The sword buried itself to the hilt in the Ekhidna’s neck, extinguishing her rage. The beast mewled in her death throes before collapsing onto the Witcher and the rowboat beneath her.

****

“For fuck’s sake…” Coinneach cursed as he crawled out from under the melee’s wreckage. Once free he fell onto his back, basking in the light of the setting sun. His limbs ached, his head was spinning and his stomach was in knots thanks to the healing tonic, but he was alive. Getting to his feet carefully, Coinneach suppressed the urge to vomit to no avail. A mixture of dark fluids of indeterminate origin slopped onto the sand as he found himself falling back onto his knees. With the toxic mixture expelled from his body the Witcher felt the nausea ease somewhat. Tentatively standing, Coinneach made his way to the hollow where the Ekhidna had been lurking. A narrow cave mouth caught his attention as he explored a sheltered overhang. The stench of festering meat spilled forth as Coinneach made his way inside. The Witcher’s eyes quickly adapted to the pitch black interior and to his surprise, the hunter could stand at his full height with room to spare; making the scene before him even more terrible. Corpses of men, varying in age, size and nationality were piled to the ceiling, many half eaten or simply toyed with. Between the mass grave and the Witcher stood a mound of treasure. Gold, silver, precious stones, jewelry, bottled perfumes, lotions, potions and tinctures; courting gifts to the ladies that called this bay home.

“Damned fools.” Camshron snorted.

Old tales speak of the days when sirens were willing and loving towards men, and of course that an everlasting love and marriage would follow successful courtship. The perfect wife, subservient and ageless. Those stories spread in no small thanks to drink and idle gossip.

“At least if I can’t find a contract on the sirens, this wasn’t all for naught.” Coinneach joked, gathering the valuables into his pouches and pockets. Taking another glance at the poor soul’s butchered remains, he let out a deep sigh.

“And if I leave you lot here the Necropages will come sooner or later.”

****

High tide brought with it the rising sun. Coinneach watched from cliffs above the bay as the water made its way to the shore, taking hold of the siren’s bodies and pulling them out to sea; wiping clean the signs of his battle. The Witcher turned to a ramshackle funeral pyre and cast the sign of Igni, the small smarks produced by his light casting beginning a makeshift cremation ceremony. Bowing his head in respect, he spoke.

“I know none of you. I don’t know what brought you here; be it searching for missing friends, desperation, a bet, or some other calamity. I hope now you can rest in peace.”

If not, I’ll be back soon. Coinneach thought to himself. With that, the Witcher collected his belongings, wrapped himself tightly in his fur cloak, and strode off into the wilds to start on the Path once more.   

((A new story appears! Came up with this over the last few days after a nasty case of writers block and procrastination. Let me know what you think of my latest tale of Coinneach the Witcher!

[sonsoffenris]

((CAUTION. THIS IS NOT A 40K STORY BUT I HAD NOWHERE ELSE TO POST IT. I was feeling a little burned out on Warhammer stuff so I came out with this little thing based in the Witcher universe. Hope you all still enjoy!))

The township of Riverwood lay in the middle of nowhere. A small upstart settlement within Verden, the burgeoning outpost was named simply for those landmarks that lay around it; a small yet dense forest and a fast flowing river providing a network with the rest of the kingdom. Until recently Riverwood was prosperous by the peasant’s standards. Trade was plentiful thanks to the waterway and the forest supplied a bounty of game and lumber. There was always work to be done and the ruling Baron was a fair and just man, asking only that the peasantry kept the peace and pulled their weight. The prosperity was shattered however when hunters began to vanish without a trace. The bodies were found days later, dessicated and riddled with deep puncture wounds. Panic spread like wildfire throughout the population. The common people refused to leave their homes, food stocks ran low and trade dwindled. Riverwood’s Sheriff, full of his own self importance sent out his best men to discover the root of the killings. They were found mere hours later shredded to pieces. The Baron, desperate to find a solution sent out word across the land, asking for the aid of knights errant or some mercenary band. The need was dire enough to accept even the help of the mutant Witchers.

A day later and much to the chagrin of the baron’s peers, a Witch Man arrived to offer his services. Introducing himself as Coinneach of the Ursine school. Without any fanfare the Witcher had came to the Baron directly under the Sheriff’s nose. He was a mountain of a man, standing at least a head taller than the Baron and his court and carrying two impressive longswords. After making his request for an advance on payment The Witcher set off to the woods with coin in hand.

                                                        ***

“It’s been two days now, m'lord. I believe it’s safe assume that he’s either dead or has ran off with his advance. Damned charlatan, I warned you not to trust their kind.” The lord’s Treasurer said haughtily.

Baron Tybalt bristled. He took a long drink from a silver goblet before running a hand through his salt and pepper beard, bringing renegade strands back into line. “If I wanted your ploughing opinion, bean counter, I’d have damn well asked for it.” Tybalt snapped.

The master of coin stepped back and straightened out his robes, doing his utmost to appear indifferent to the Baron’s barb. “Very well, my lord.” He said, bowing slowly while wringing his gnarled hands.

“Ah, Godfrey.” Tybalt released an exasperated sigh and slouched into his chair, gazing up at the painted ceiling of his study. After a moment reflecting on the scenes of battle immortalised above him, the Baron held out a second goblet out to the Treasurer. “Forgive my temper. Between the dead piling up, the hysteria, our dwindling coffers, and now the possibility I’ve been duped…It’s left me somewhat on edge.”

Godfrey graciously accepted the proffered drink and took a quick sip. “I understand, m'lord.” He turned to the window looking out over Riverwood and the lands beyond. Torches burned bright around the town, keeping the darkness of night at bay. Beyond the border of the torchlight lay the forest, only a mass of blackness in the gloom. To the Treasurer those trees meant only commodities, trade, resources to be exploited until the events of the past weeks. Now those woods looked only like uncertainty and death. He shook the thoughts from his mind and returned his gaze to Tybalt. “I’ll have Frederik send more men to deal with this ‘Devil of the Woods’ come the morrow. For now though, I believe it is time to retire.”

The baron let out a morose chuckle. “And risk more soldiers?”

“What else can be done?”

A superstitious man would surmise the Fates took note of Baron Tybalt’s plight at that moment, for before he could respond to his aging friend the study doors flew open. The new arrival, draped in a heavy woollen cloak approached the two nobles in silence and made a rough approximation of a bow. Pulling back a soaking wet hood, the stranger revealed a snow white complexion marred by black veins and a pair of amber eyes glowing like stars in the dimly lit study.

“The work is done, Lord.” The visitor said matter of factly. His rasping voice reverberated around the stone walled room, sending a shiver down Tybalt’s spine. “I’m here to collect the rest of the reward.”

“Ah, Master Coinneach!” The Baron roared in jubilation. “Of course, my treasurer here will present you with-”

“You have proof, sir?” Godfrey snidely interrupted, raising a hand towards Baron Tybalt to silence him.

“What is the meaning of this, Godfrey?! The Witcher has returned, caked in blood and Melitele only knows what else. What more do you need?”

“It’s alright, Baron.” Coinneach said. An involuntary twitch sent a twinge of pain through his body as an unstable mixture of decoctions coursed through his veins, causing his corpse like appearance and bulging black veins. “It is his right to demand proof of the deed.” He added, producing a blood encrusted sack from under his cloak. Coinneach casually emptied the contents onto the floor. A silver goblet crashed onto the stone tiles below as Godfrey turned away in horror. Tybalt choked on a mouthful of wine and hurriedly covered his mouth with a cloth kerchief, unable to look away from the human head on the floor.

“What have you done, Witcher?!” Tybalt howled.

“Dealt with your issue. Don’t be so easily fooled by looks.” The Witcher replied with a sarcastic smirk. He knelt down before the body part and tipped out the rest of the sack’s contents; a pair of hands, cleanly sliced off at the wrist. These hands would have also passed for human, were it not for the long and slender claws they sported.

Tybalt got to his feet and cautiously marched towards the grisly display. With a soft tap from his boot the head rolled over to face him. The piercing blue eyes of a beautiful young woman stared back at him. A sly, lustful smile played across her features, emphasising soft dimples. A curtain of filth encrusted hair stuck to her cheek, with its unblemished ivory skin. There was no doubt the woman was stunning, perfect even. Too perfect.

“So, what is it?” The Baron asked. The kerchief was still held tightly to his face in a desperate attempt to protect himself from the stomach churning stench.

Coinneach grasped the head, shifting it in his hands as though it were a mere plaything. Turning it to face him, the Witcher grabbed hold of the lower jaw and yanked it open with a sickening crack before forcing his fingers into the gaping maw. Godfrey vomited out of the window, unable to stomach the display any longer. Tybalt heaved as he desperately resisted the urge to follow his Treasurer’s example. For all the shock and disgust however, he couldn’t help but watch the Witcher work. After what seemed like an age, Coinneach let out a low, breathy chuckle and removed his hand from the open mouth, pulling out an impressively long tongue along with it. He inspected it thoughtfully before turning it once again to face Tybalt and the now somewhat recuperated Godfrey.

“In my trade, we know it as a Baobhan Sith. A sort of vampire.”

“Vampire?! Gods….” Tybalt slumped back into his chair, his brow furrowed in worriment. A simple monster was one thing, a near human creature feasting upon his people was another matter entirely. “Will my people be safe in the woods now?”

Coinneach nodded “Aye. From this, at least. These creatures are individualistic. Usually they find a hunting ground, take it as their territory and won’t suffer others of its race trespassing. It’s odd that this one even ventured so close to Riverwood, in fact. I suggest you search the area, collect the dead and deal with them quickly before Necrophages catch the scent.”

The Baron nodded agreeably and turned to his compatriot. “Well Godfrey, will that suffice as proof?” The Treasurer, struggling not to begin retching again only managed a nod in reply.  

“Master Witcher, you have my thanks. Godfrey here will be more than happy to grant you your reward.” Tybalt gestured to the Treasurer with a wave of the hand. The man waddled forward, cautiously stepping around the body parts and presented a pouch to Coinneach. With an appreciative nod the Witcher took the pouch and tied it to his belt, testing his knot with a few firm pulls.

“My thanks, Baron.”

“Well, with that unpleasantness out of the way, will you be moving on?” Tybalt said as a relieved grin spread across his face. The smile he gave Coinneach seemed more genuine than most he’d seen from nobility. His usual experiences with Lords, Ladies, Counts and the like seldom ever included the nobles themselves, instead Coinneach would be consulted by a servant or some such other intermediary rather than the high born patron themselves, too busy or not seeing a Witcher as worthy of an audience at all.

“I shall soon, Lord.” The Witcher replied. “First I’d like to rest, tend to my wounds, perhaps even have an ale.” He shifted his cloak to reveal punctured layers of chainmail and leather still slick with blood.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Witcher.” Came a voice from the doorway. There stood Sheriff Frederik proudly, sporting highly polished armour smugly as it strained against his pot belly. For all the attention the man gave to his plate, Coinneach could see the tell tale signs of shoddy workmanship and badly made joints. The Witcher suppressed a smile as he wondered how much the Sheriff had been tricked into paying.

“And why would that be?” Tybalt barked, leaping up from his chair.

“My lord, this…man is a hired thug, a killer.” Frederik crossed his arms with a clatter. “Not to mention Witchers only bring trouble and the pox. Mutants like him and his ilk have no place in Riverwood. He should be sent on his way immediately.”

To Coinneach’s credit he remained silent, though his hands clenched into fists. How easy it would have been to simply knock the Sheriff out…or worse. The combat high still addling his thoughts forced his mind to view the hostile Sheriff as a foe and he struggled to suppress the urge to act on it. The Witcher simply met Frederik’s stare head on, the cat like eyes causing some discomfort to him. Outwardly the Sheriff seemed full of confidence and bravado as postured like a beast proving its superiority. To Coinneach however, it was child’s play to peel away the layers of the act. The heightened senses of Witchers were legendary and thanks to it Coinneach could hear the man’s heart pounding like a drum and smell the pungent odour of perspiration emanating from him, slowly overtaking the smell emanating from the decaying body parts on the floor.

“Frederik, you are a trusted friend,” The Baron said. “but you’re a damn fool. Need I remind you that this ‘mutant’ defeated what a handful of your best men could not? I’d expect you to show some appreciation and decency.” Tybalt’s fists were balled in frustration, though Frederik seemed not to notice the irritation in his lord’s words.

The Sheriff closed the distance between himself and the Witcher, bringing his armoured gut mere inches away. Coinneach stood his ground, still staring intensely into Frederik’s eyes, an action his opponent was struggling to match.

“Do not take my words for mere insults, my Lord! I am thankful to you Witcher, of course. My men can rest easy knowing they have been avenged and the peasants can freely return to the forest again. However I cannot let you remain here among the common people any longer. Your work has finished here, vagabond. Time to move on.”

Frederik’s tirade was cut off by a crash as Baron Tybalt, red faced, slammed his palm against a desk. “Enough of this! You forget yourself..”

“No, Lord!” The Sheriff stamped his foot. “This bastard came into these lands without even a word to me. He should have made himself known as soon as he arrived. It’s typical of his kind….” He paced a circle around Coinneach, sizing him up. The Witcher remained stationary, refusing to give Frederik the satisfaction. “You think you’re better than us, don’t you? Damned freak.” He spat a glob of phlegm onto the Witcher’s mud encrusted boots. “You know what I think? You’re no different than us. You just rutted some damn witch and she gave you some cat eyes as thanks.” The Sheriff smiled menacingly as another twitch shook Coinneach. He became more and more brazen as he fooled himself into thinking his words were hitting their mark.

“I said enough, you stupid bastard!” Tybalt screamed.

“Look at him, m’lord! He’s nothing but a damn nuisance. He probably created this ‘proof’ to run off with the reward!”

Coinneach hit his breaking point. He turned swiftly to Baron Tybalt and gave him a meaningful look, raising his hand slightly to indicate his intention. Tybalt sighed and gave a barely perceivable nod in reply. A fist flashed out before Frederik could react. His sneer was replaced with an expression of horror as the Witcher’s gloved hand connected with his face. Silver studded knuckles slammed into the Sheriff’s nose with a crunch. Cartilage bent and snapped under the force before Frederik fall backwards, his bald head slamming onto the stone floor. Coinneach relaxed his fist and looked down upon his victim. Frederik lay in shock, eyes wide open and bleeding profusely onto his bushy moustache.

“My apologies, Baron.” Coinneach said as he spat on the Sheriff’s spotless breastplate, returning the favour. “He should have known better than to insult a Witcher’s work.”  

"Nonsense!” Tybalt said solemnly. “I apologise for that blaggard, rest assured I’ll be having a word with him when he comes to his senses. Now, if you are in need of a good bed and some ale you should make your way to the Harpy’s Den. The working women there will be sure to give you a hero’s welcome, if that’s what you desire. I’ll send word that you’ll be making your way there. I promise that the best room shall be ready for you.”

Coinneach’s scarred features twisted into a smile. “My thanks, Lord. Now, if you will excuse me?”

“Of course! Please stay as long as you require. You have nothing to fear from this twit. You’ll be welcomed in my town with open arms!”

Coinneach replied with a grateful nod and made his way to the exit. The image of a hot meal and a bath played upon his mind, but a friendly face took precedence. A chance meeting with an old friend had to be arranged.

                                                      ***

She retreated upstairs from the noise of the inn’s patrons, the blue fabric of her short, thin dress flowing behind her. Stepping cautiously along the dimly lit hallway, she made her way to the last door of the corridor and braced herself for what awaited on the other side. Straightening her outfit and patting down her auburn hair for the third time, she finally gave the door a heavy knock.

“Come in!” Came a bark from inside.

She entered and the form of Coinneach caught her eyes immediately. He sat slumped haphazardly on the floor, his back leaning against the foot of a large bed. His messy brown hair covered the majority of his face while he sat quietly in a bloodstained shirt, head hung low. Putting on on a sultry expression, she bent forward slightly to display her cleavage. “Hello, darling. Fancy some company?” She said. Kneeling down close to the Witcher, she whispered into his ear. “For you, I’ll give it away for half price.”

“Not tonight love, got a bastard of a headache.” Coinneach softly replied. A sarcastic smile quickly spread across his lips as he turned to face his visitor. “Hello, Maggie.”

“It was worth a go!” Maggie laughed and broke out into a grin as she wrapped her arms around Coinneach tightly, pulling him into an embrace. Planting a loving kiss on his cheek, she watched with worry as Coinneach grimaced. The room began to spin in his vision with the sudden movement, sending pain flaring through his torso and intensifying the sickly feeling in the pit of his stomach. In the time since his hunt ended the cocktail of adrenaline and toxic Witcher’s potions lost their hold on his body, leaving intense pain and illness in its wake.

“How long has it been?” Maggie said as she shifted Coinneach back into his original slouching position.

“Four years.”

Maggie laughed softly. “You stumbled in, soaked and half dead before collapsing on the floor.”

“The Moors Forktail.” The Witcher replied with a sigh. If his skin pigmentation was that of a normal human’s he was sure his face would be red. Stretching out a hand with a grunt Coinneach took up a clay cup and filled it from a battered wine skin before handing it to Maggie. She gleefully accepted it and took a mouthful. Coughing as she swallowed, she turned to him and chuckled. “Cintran brandy! You always knew how to treat a lady. So! What brings you back to my little paradise? The Devil in the Woods?”

Coinneach nodded. “Dealt with.”

“Paid?”

“Of course.”

“Before tending to your needs? You damned fool. Right, Stand up. I need to get a look at you. And get out of that filthy shirt!”

Maggie hopped to her feet and helped Coinneach to his before pulling his shirt over his head, uncovering a patchwork of scars and burns across his form. Other than a layer of filth on his muscled body and a handful of new scars, he was exactly how she had remembered him. Turning away, she began the arduous task of loosening the complex pattern of laces and hooks that kept her confined within her corset. After a moment of cursing and struggle she cast it aside onto the floor with disdain. Coinneach couldn’t help but smirk as he cast his eyes across her form. As Maggie stretched out, he watched the newly freed fabric of her low cut dress shift across her body, outlining every curve and detail. Curves he could could have lost herself in once upon a time. After basking in the feeling of freedom, Maggie turned to the Witcher and looked him over. It would have been difficult not to notice the four perfect circular wounds torn into his side, surrounded by inflamed tissue. In a flash she dove into Coinneach’s satchel and rummaged through it feverously. Small trophies, souvenirs and notebooks spilled out haphazardly until she came across the wooden box she was searching for. With the rattle of glass vials and porcelain jars she returned to Coinneach and pushed him into a sitting position on the bed. He suppressed a groan as the room began to warp around him once again.

“What was it, then?” She asked as she held up a glass vial filled with a greenish fluid.

Coinneach meekly nodded in confirmation before his medic got to work. Soaking a rag with the stinking liquid, Maggie pushed the cloth into each wound and squeezed the herbal tonic out onto the torn flesh to flush out any filth and infectious material. The Witcher hissed as the mixture began its work, stinging the injured flesh. He imagined he could hear his muscles sizzling as Maggie worked away.

“It was a Baobhan Sith. A vampire of sorts. Interesting one, to boot.”

“Interesting?” Maggie said. “Interesting enough you let the fucking thing bite you?”

Coinneach chuckled. Her every word brought him comfort. She was one of the few people to treat him like he was a normal man, not some freak to fear or be guarded around. No inhuman feature, abnormality or disfigurement could change how she spoke to him.

“They don’t bite. They have long claws to punch holes in their victim’s flesh, then use a long tongue to lap up the blood.” The Witcher’s tone was unfeeling, unmoved by such information. Knowledge of beasts of every shape and size was essential in his line of work, as distasteful or even heretical as it seemed to those outside of the various Witcher schools. Ever since his introduction to the life he now led, monsters and their ways always fascinated him.

“Absolutely enthralling!” Maggie sarcastically replied.

“She was, in a way.”

“She? Do tell.” Placing the vial and rag aside, Maggie unravelled a length of bandage and began tightly wrapping it around Coinneach’s torso. She laughed as she spotted the Witcher wince in discomfort. “Thought your kind were tough, big bad Witch Man.”

“I’ll remember that one next time you have need of my services.” He replied. After tying a knot to secure the bandaging Maggie gently patted the wound. Unconsciously, Coinneach wrapped an arm around Maggie’s waist and pulled her onto his lap. She stiffened in fright, but didn’t stop him. “You see.” He began. “These vampires live alone, usually around roads that see very little traffic.

Maggie lost herself in his words, the thick Skellige accent he bore causing her heart to beat ever faster. Nestling closer to him, she placed a hand upon his chest and allowed her fingers to slip into the trenches of scars covering his body. She traced a line from one mark to the next where they intersected, allowing the depth and curve of each old wound to dictate her finger’s direction. To Maggie it was akin to a map of Coinneach’s travels, each one was a story she yearned to hear.

“Once a victim, say a traveller or merchant finally appears on her path, the Baobhan Sith appears to them. Perhaps as a damsel in distress, a lost girl or a seductress of some sort. Once they reel them in, they pounce! You get the idea.”

“Charming! Though I’m not surprised some hayseeds and self important fools fall for it. Did she try to seduce you, Witcher?” Maggie asked, moving ever closer to his lips. The urge burned within her breast, undeniable and irresistible. It took all of her will to hold herself there, so unbearably close. Her mind raced, How did it come to this again? she thought to herself. There she was, in the arms of this scarred, bloodied, filthy killer and yet she had never felt safer. She couldn’t hold back a second longer. As Coinneach opened his mouth to speak she pounced like the vampire he described, wrapping her arms around his head and pulling him into a passionate kiss.

Coinneach’s mind fell into chaos. Between the pain, nausea, and sudden shock he couldn’t muster a single thought. In that moment, instinct took over. Primal impulse drove him to lay back onto the bed, pulling Maggie with him and let their bodies entwine. They exchanged their feelings of longing and need as they held each other tight, never wishing to let the moment end. However as The Witcher’s mind wrestled back control, he knew the two were simply treading over old ground. Coinneach pulled away, laying a hand upon her chest as Maggie attempted to give chase. “You know we can’t-”

“Coinneach…” Maggie placed a hand over his mouth, the rough bristles of his stubble tickling her palm. “Please, just for tonight.”

He relented, bringing himself close and whispered softly to her. “Just for tonight.”

                                                       ***

She awoke with a start. The delirium of sleep still muddling her thoughts. Feeling an arm stretched across her bare chest, she slowly shifted her head to find the owner. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she picked out the disfigured flesh of Coinneach, still sleeping soundly. Maggie slid herself out of bed slowly and quietly, doing everything she could to leave the Witcher in peace. She cursed every creaking floorboard her foot landed upon as she made her way to the pile of hastily discarded clothing. Groping clumsily for her boot, Maggie hastily plunged her hand into it and searched the lining desperately. An eternity passed, her heart pounding so intensely that she expected it to burst. Finally her fingers felt the familiar grip of a dagger, and pulled it from a concealed sheath. Maggie stood over him, blade in hand while he lay there defenseless, oblivious, pathetic. Her knuckles whitened as she trapped the dagger in a death grip. Moonlight shone through an open window, casting Coinneach in a brilliant white light, only distorted by the shadow she cast over her lover’s face.

“Just one cut on the neck…” Maggie whispered to herself. “Then you’ll never go hungry again, no more whoring, no more drunks, no more beatings.”

Her eyes caught the Witcher’s medallion reflecting like a jewel in the light, forcing old memories to surface. The snarling bear’s head was always there, standing sentinel on Coinneach’s chest. His only travelling companion, keeping watch for the evils he faced daily. She detested it. To her it represented why they couldn’t be together. Months of nursing him back to health, treating his wounds, making sure he ate and drank to keep his strength up passed and in return, Coinneach regaled her with stories of kingdoms and nations far away from her insignificant little town and the beasts he encountered there. When Coinneach had recovered, he prepared to set off on the Path again. It was all he knew, Maggie understood that. There was no use in asking him to stay with her and find some other work in Riverwood. A Witcher is a Witcher, there’s no changing what they do. That knowledge tormented her to this very day. Coinneach beseeched her to join him, travel, seek out adventure, see distant lands. Fear took hold of her and she had refused, remaining in Riverwood alone and broken hearted. The sensation of tears rolling down her face Maggie back into the present to meet a pair of amber eyes blazing in the darkness.

“Well? Do it.” The words rang cold, emotionless.

“I-I can’t” Maggie whimpered. The knife shone in the moonlight as it slipped from her hands, landing on the floor with a dull thud.

With a hefty sigh, Coinneach moved to her and took her into an embrace. “Who?”

“Sheriff Frederik.”

“How much?”

“Three hundred.” Tears streamed in torrents now, stinging her eyes. Maggie buried her head into Coinneach’s chest and unleashed a scream of guilt and frustration.

“If you needed money you only needed to ask me.” The Witcher said. She couldn’t bring herself to answer.

The pair stood in silence until the orange glow of the rising sun lit the room. Maggie opened her eyes once more as the Witcher peeled himself away from her. He marched over to his clothes in silence and began to dress.

Why don’t you shout, lash out, destroy the room? She thought.

The quiet was torture. Maggie wanted to grab him, pull him back into the bed where everything felt so right and nothing hurt them. Painful moments passed while Coinneach secured armour, fastened belts and packed his gear without an utterance. Once prepared, he retrieved a hefty pouch from a hidden pocket and tossed it onto the bed. It landed with the clatter of coin. A lot of coin.

“Three hundred crowns, plus a few marks and stones I’ve picked up.” Coinneach’s voice was gentle, quiet. So unlike his deep, rasping bark. “It’s yours.”

“Why?” Maggie mumbled.

“As a goodbye.”

She visibly flinched. “No, Coinneach. I’m-I’m sorry. Please stay!”

Coinneach shook his head before taking up the two sheathed swords leaning against the wall. As he made to leave, he turned, taking one last look at her. “Just for tonight, remember?” He said. There was no anger or sadness to his voice. Just an icy cold bluntness.

The words slammed into her with the force of a charging bull. Her breathing became laboured and her stomach twisted into painful knots. Placing a hand on the bed to steady herself, she gazed at the coin pouch for a moment. Before she could utter a word he was gone. Like a spectre he vanished from town as if this had all been some nightmare. She was left in Riverwood alone and heartbroken.

[sonsoffenris]

"Never let your guard down to me!” He bellowed. The speech was akin to a roaring avalanche, echoing throughout the cavernous cargo bay. As he spoke, he unleashed a thunderous blow to his opponent's torso. Camshron's muscles tensed involuntarily as the strike connected, forcing him back several torturous paces. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity the Primarch was being challenged, perhaps even bested, he had found an equal. The Great Bear's attacker stood tall before him, proud and yet feral in his bearing. Filthy flaxen hair framed his lupine features and predatory eyes while overdeveloped canines reflected the dim light as the Wolf King gave a condescending grin to his new found brother. The clenched fist relaxed as Leman Russ stepped away, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "What troubles you, brother? Did Gealach make you soft? The life of the son of a smith must have diluted that warrior blood." The lord of Fenris paced back and forth before Camshron with a patronising swagger in each step. "Pathetic..." Before Camshron could retort Russ' fist flashed once more out with preternatural speed, slamming into the Bear's jaw with punishing force. Camshron felt his teeth smash together, shearing a portion of his tongue clean off. Blood began to flow freely from wound and the sickly taste of copper invaded his senses. An Athach's vision began to narrow as the Darkness took hold. There was no stopping it now, every ounce of Camshron's resolve could never stem the flow of white hot rage about to spill forth. Leman was toying with him, goading him into action. It was working. Russ sensed the sudden change in his opponent. The stale oxygen grew colder as the simple scents of earth and stone Camshron was steeped in drifted away and were replaced with the acrid odour of steel and fire. Oppressive silence took hold as the warrior of Gealach stood sentinel, watching Russ with eyes of piercing blue. The smile slowly dropped from the Wolf King's face as Camshron's once soft features shifted to a cold, emotionless expression, more fitting of a death mask than a living, breathing being. Camshron surged forward, feet hammering a manic rhythm into the deck before his body battered into Russ' waist shoulder first and he whipped his arms around the Wolf's torso in a tight embrace. Leman felt a rush of air leave his lungs as his giant brother took hold and with a growl slammed his fists onto An Athach's muscular frame in response, feeling the familiar crack of bone with a sick smile of satisfaction. The hail of fists upon his frame were a mere echo of mild sensation to Camshron, lost within the constant thrum of his heartbeat and the deafening rush of blood coursing through his body. Primal instinct took hold as he pushed Russ off balance, tackling him to the ground and following his brother down to straddle the Wolf King's torso, ready to deliver a flurry of strikes. Russ laughed heartily as he witnessed Camshron bearing down upon him. Finally he had lit a fire in his his opponent. "Much better, little brother!" Camshron slammed fist after fist down upon Russ, colliding with the thick muscle of the Wolf's forearms. Russ could feel the the dull ache of swelling begin as blow after blow connected with all the force of a war mammoth. A grin spread across the Fenrisian's face once more as he prepared for his moment to strike back. With a roar Russ threw his arms outward, pushing away the flow of strikes and grabbed hold of Camshron's wrists, digging long ebon nails into the Bear's weatherbeaten flesh before rushing forward into a brutal headbutt, smashing into the bridge of his brother's nose. Camshron bellowed back a roar of his own in response before being sent reeling backwards onto his back. Deck plating screeched in protest as the Bear's mass slammed down. Somewhere in the miasma of his mind, he recognised the snap of a broken nose. With an effortless movement the Wolf King leapt to his feet and lunged into a mighty kick, forcing every ounce of his weight into the blow. The impact sent Camshron skidding across the deck and onto his face with a wet slap. Vital fluids flooded into his organs as broken bone pierced through the fragile walls of his lungs. Yet more blood flowed freely from his lacerated wrists onto the floor to slowly pool around him. The cold fury coursing through his veins forced out even the slightest shock of pain, leaving only the sickening sensation of shattered bone shredding through flesh and organ alike. Bones fragments ground against each other as the Bear pulled himself to his feet and made a leaping strike at Russ, throwing a massive right hook with all of his might. Russ' head snapped back as he took the brunt of the blow to his nose, smashing it flat against his face as cartilage crumpled under the pressure. Without a second wasted Camshron was again striking out, forcing Russ onto the defensive. Agonising hours passed as the two exchanged blows. As the battered and bloody Camshron swung out with a mighty hammerblow, Russ would respond with an uppercut. Each attack was met with an equally vicious counterattack. The two titans were without remorse or mercy as they punished each other for any mistake or opening. Russ struck out with sheer might like the warriors of song and Camshron would simply shrug off the blow and continue in blind fury. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object. The Wolf dodged yet another blow, diverting Camshron's momentum and swiftly darted behind to deliver a crushing elbow to An Athach's head, forcing the Bear onto the ground. Russ smiled with glee. The victory was hard fought, and all the sweeter for it. "Well fough-" Before the words left his mouth, Camshron was upon him again. It was as if a berserker of old Fenris had come before the Wolf to do battle. A relentless, nigh unstoppable beast bred for battle and death. Camshron's breathing was ragged and often followed by a gurgling wretch as the Bear's body began to wear down. Russ knew this had to end, but could Camshron be stopped? The berserkers will killed after a long battle to end their misery. Could the Wolf do the same to his own blood? A figure flashed out of the shadows, charging toward the Great Bear and locking him into a bearhug. The warrior strained with animalistic fury, eyes wide and roaring in protesy. The mighty grip of the stranger in gleaming white armour was too much for the fatigued form of Camshron to resist, howevrr A thick Cthonian accent broke through the trance like state, speaking soothing words into Camshron's ear. "Breath deep, my brother. The battle is won." "Won?!" Russ spat. "I had him from the start!" He added, doing his best not to betray his thoughts. The stranger shot the Wolf a venomous glare before turning his attention back to Camshron. "You're with family, Great Bear. All is well." Camshron felt the red haze burn away under the weight of his captor's words. The voice was still new to him, for only mere days ago had he been introduced to its owner. Yet it felt so familiar to him already, as if it had been with him since birth. Through laboured breaths, An Athach forced a word from his lips. "Lupercal." Horus smiled warmly as he relaxed his grip, taking note of the fresh blood coating his once gleaming armour. The lord of Gealach felt his senses become his own once more with a shock of intense pain, forcing his body into a short lived convulsion before his body began to fight against his extensive injuries. As the his body rebuilt itself, the familiar wave of nausea passed over him and brought with it a sickening thought. The sudden realisation that he lost control of the beast within him and unleashed it upon a man he called brother. "I...I am sorry, Russ." Leman Russ stood battered, bruised, and bloody, yet proudly as ever before his Primarch brethren. Without a word he spat a thick gobbet of blood onto the battered deck plating, leaving the caustic saliva to eat away at the dented metal. He let the silence settle, leaving only the sizzling sound to fill the chamber. Tension built as Camshron readied himself for the fight to begin once more before the Wolf King let out a bellowing laugh and rushed forward to take Camshron by the shoulders. "All is forgiven, brother. I haven't had such fun in a good while! Not since our father challenged me on Fenris." Horus rolled his eyes as a sarcastic smirk crept across his face. The knowing expression of a man who has heard the same tall tale more times than could be counted. "Your rage is a powerful weapon, brother." Horus cut in, forcing an end to Russ' speech. "It needs to be tempered, however." Camshron nodded solemnly, mulling over Horus' words. Every syllable was measured and planned carefully, much like those of the council members of Damh Croiceach, yet this intoxicated the Bear rather than repulsed him. "Aye!" Russ thumped Camshron's chest playfully. "You have a good heart and a sense of honour."" “And a gift in that frenzied state." Horus added. "This gift." Camshron chuckled sadly "Is a damned curse." "Fear not, brother." Russ said with concern in his voice. "You'll learn to harness it."

[sonsoffenris]

All was darkness, and hope was a faint glimmer in the void. Intense pain surged through his body. Every sore, open wound and burn laid bare before a toxic atmosphere. He felt himself at peace in the dark however, surrounded by the daemons that judged his every action. At rest, the shadows spoke words of wisdom to him. Truths he had told himself since his very inception as the warrior he would become.

“Rest now, you’ve accomplished so very much”

YOUR WEAKNESS FINALLY BROUGHT YOU LOW, EH? LIE DOWN AND TAKE IT LIKE THE CRAVEN YOU KNOW YOU ARE. THIS WAS ALWAYS YOUR FATE AFTER ALL. NO PEACE FOR A SPAWN SUCH AS YOU.

Sometimes however, less familar voices intruded upon his rest, some as harsh as the roars of beasts he took his clan name from.

“Lord, are you with us?! Damn it all, stand!”

The shadows danced in the gloom as they made their response.

“FORGET THEM. YOU BELONG WITH US! AFTER ALL, A BEAST RAISED AMONG MEN REMAINS A BEAST.”

“You deserve your rest, warrior. Give in and take your place in myth and song.”

He felt his convulsions wrack his frame as shock set in. His body performed incredible feats as it tried to correct the damage. Bone fused into solid pieces from splintered ruins and thick torrents of blood became a hard crust over gaping injuries. Wounds that would have been the killing blow for most save himself and a handful of others.

The parade of ethereal voices flooded into his mind again. One bringing a warmth and weight all of its own, not derived from his fractured psyche.

“MY SON, YOUR END IS NOT HERE ON SOME FAR FLUNG ROCK. STAND TALL ONCE MORE AND FIGHT!”

howling screams followed in reply to the choral proclamation.

“SON? HE MAY BE YOUR SIRE, BUT OF YOUR BLOOD HE IS NOT. WHY HEED THE WORDS OF A MERE NEWCOMER? WE’VE BEEN HERE FOR YOU FROM THE START.”

His mind was set ablaze in a crimson inferno, sending his body into yet more convulsions. Muscles strained as raging flames burned their way through layer after layer of the thick fog that smothered the batlefield of his consciousness. He saw that glimmer of hope for what it truly was now, as if it was always close, shining down upon him. He bathed in its beauty, unleashing a seldom seen grin as he looked upon its splendour. That brilliant orb of pure gold stared down upon him with a great eye ringed by those same intense red flames that was illuminating every dark corner of his memory, yet no longer did the flames burn. The soothing heat coursed through every vein and screaming nerve ending as he allowed the fires free passage to his innermost thoughts, casting out the spectres as it travelled. Just as he was beginning to bask in the healing glow, the orb radiated a light of purest white, summoning a memory locked away deep within the the labyrinth of his memory.

“Get off your arse, boy! There’s plenty more Drac that need a cull in the hills.”

A repulsive cocktail of loss and longing washed over him.

“I told you not to take the bloody thing head on, didn’t I? Now, on your feet. I know you can take worse than that.”

“Father?” Camshron An Athach mumbled as he forced his eyes open. He shot to his feet before another thought could come to him. Instead of the verdant forests of Gealach however, he was met with the chaos of battle. Tracer fire raced overhead as he cast his still stinging eyes across the battlefield. Corpses of stone grey Astartes lay strewn around him while a battle line of men from the Steel Claws legion formed a defensive cordon, giving their all to defend the crater where the Primarch had lay mere moments before.

The hilt of a sword passed into his vision, held by another Space Marine clad in plain power armour. A cursory glance told him all Camshron needed to know of the warrior. Battered helm, next to no ornamentation or artifice. It could only be Romach.

“Glad to see you still breathing.” Romach said dryly through a growling vox grille as he passed the Primarch’s hulking blade into his grip.

A grim smile passed quickly across Camshron’s face in reply. The giant swung his weapon, testing his ravaged muscles. “It’ll do.” Camshron thought to himself.

His body was a mockery of its previous majesty. The heavy battle plate once covering his body was a smouldering wreck above the waist, revealing a tightly muscled chest marred by scorched flesh and the craters of large caliber ammunition. He passed a hand across his face, feeling only the blackened crust of burned flesh where his mane of brown hair once was. Pushing the pain aside, Camshron stared at the gleaming sword resting in his meaty grip as reflections danced across its surface. Turning to face the enemy’s defensive line, his thoughts finally slowed as the sights and smells of battle intoxicated him. This was his calling. A monster he may be, but a monster given purpose by two great men and the aid of a fellow demigod. Simply giving in to the darkness that plagued him would just be far too easy, as tempting as it was. 

Making a titanic leap over the firing line of his men and breaking into a sprint, Camshron whispered under his breath before unleashing an animalistic roar.

“Thank you, my brother.”

((So it’s been a while and while this may not be some of my best work, I felt I should post it. Camshron and the Steel Claws have always been a labour of love for me and Camshron himself is in some ways based on my perception of the severe depression and self loathing that I live with. Currently I am now unemployed due to said depression and With little to do, my mind often haunts me like this. I felt that explaining this may help some people that read this and think it’s just stupid. This is actually goes on in the mind of someone with a mental illness, even with the medication those dark thoughts are always there in the back of your mind.

Anyway, I’ve edited this as best I could but it may still read like a bit of a mess. concentration is not my strong suit right now.

Thanks for reading!))

[sonsoffenris]

++Remembrancers’s illustration of a warrior of the Damh Croiceach clan of Gealach. Take note of the basic armour plating built upon pre Dark Age of Technology wargear. The firearm carried by these warriors is also a weapon of ancient origins. A simple auto pistol with the chassis replaced by wooden parts resembling that of early Terran pistols. The antlers affixed to the heavy cloak aerve two purposes. It is a sign of transition into adulthood after the clansmen has felled his first beast, and to create an imposing silhouette in order to demoralise their foes. The knight pictured is a young initiate on routine patrol along the Northern regions of Gealach. Although the Imperial army along with the first legion of the Legionnes Astartes had long since rid the frozen North of the primitive tribesmen and abhuman creatures in the region, men and women from the many clans of the planet still keep a constant vigil as a tradition and sign of respect to the primarch Camshron An Athach.++

[sonsoffenris]

marquisdemontmatre

Our resident artist, deathshead13 has been working on this after reading a few of my stories starring my concept of one of the mysterious legions, known as the Steel Claws, or Tosgan Cruaidh over on sonsoffenris. I can’t tell you how honoured I am that someone took the time to...

[sonsoffenris]

++Remembrancers's illustration of a hunter gatherer of the Faol clan of Gealach. Note the primitive firearm and clothing. Said hunter was not fully cooperative with the artist before being offered a bottle of Amasec and several items from the trading post he had travelled to.++

Lunchtime Scribble - Brainstorming with Blood of Asaheim!

Bodach Sliabh (Old Man of the Mountains) by DEATHSHEAD13

G’day everyone! Hope all is well in whatever corner of this great big world you live in.

Some of you may know that I work very closely with blood-of-asaheim on a lot of my art. He is a great sounding board for ideas and his writing (found here: sonsoffenris) is a massive inspiration for me too. Go check out his stories once you’re done here. DO IT!!

Over the course of the day we have been bouncing ideas off one another about some of the pre-imperium aspects of his Steel Claws Legion (some art of it here). We got chatting about the Space Marine Scouts and we came up with this guy.

He is kinda like a pre-imperium mountain man/hunter/animal trapper guy. We figure these guys would act as the scouts, tracking enemy movement through thick forests, living off the land with no resupply and sniping off bad guys with their relic revolver rifles.

This was a blast to draw as he came together over while we bantered on for hours.

Hope you like him! Im sure we will see more of him and his mates in the future.

Stay Awesome!

- Deathshead13

[sonsoffenris]

Another successful hunt.

Camshron An Athach stood at the bow of the Carban as it sailed smoothly into the jetty of his native home. Proudly grasping rope cast from the mainsail he grinned as they cut a line through rough seas with their latest catch. A great armoured whale of the Green Oceans will serve them well, as fuel for the fires and meat to last his people through Winter, not to mention the bones and chitenous plate of the beast, perfect for construction. The smile faded from the warrior-lord’s face suddenly as they edged closer to home. His enhanced eyes caught sight of lights in the distance. Signal fires? No, too many and too dim to alert the crew to some danger. Perhaps a celebration of their return? Yes, that would be the reason. After all, peace between the Mathan and native clans had been concrete since Camshron took up arms against the Storm Giant and his raiders of Monadail, signified by the three Shieldmaidens of clan Rùda accompanying the giant on his voyage.

The smell of charred flesh assailed Camshron’s nostrils as the village of Càrn Cìobair came into clear sight. Indeed, those bonfires thought to be set in joyous revelry revealed themselves to be towering pyres of the dead. The giant urged the boat to reach its destination, as if his sheer force of will alone would hasten his flight home.

"As soon as we land, we move, weapons ready. Nothing else."

His crew nodded nervously as outlines of thatched roof buildings came into view, smoking and blackened. Camshron roared in anger as he took up a harpoon along with a simple boarding axe, gripping the both weapons with such force to imbed his hand into the rough cut wood. The warrior women of Clan Tarbh bellowed in acknowledgment, taking up thick, round shields in preparation. As the Carban sailed ever closer to the jetty, An Athach backpedalled across the deck before sprinting forward, his heavy footfalls thundering across the weathered wood, cracking planks and shaking the vessel. As he reached the edge of the bow, his last step crashed down before he leapt clear from the ship. His legs throwing him forward like a coiled spring. With a great roar the warrior slammed down upon the dirt jetty and charged into the village.

Càrn Cìobair lay devastated by the chaos of battle. Bodies lay strewn across the dirt paths, mouths open in terror still. Camshron could name every face he saw, farriers, hunters, children, warriors, shepherds. Flames licked out from within crofts and byres, tormented animals howled in pain as they burned within their shelters, grain stockpiles rendered down to blackened husks. Every body and ruin stabbed like a dagger to the centre of his heart. Everything these people had strove for and every memory of triumph after the arduous battle against Gealach’s climate now put to the torch. Camshron moulded that pain into fuel, his blood boiled as he raced to find an outlet for his anger. Behind him, the warrior could hear the battle cries of the crew arriving onshore and lamented the heartache his comrades would suffer when they came to witness the ruin.

More fuel, more strength. Camshron’s heart beat like a war drum within his gargantuan frame as he set eyes upon his foe at last. Within the village square, before the great hall was a horde of creatures. Once human, but no more. Under rusted and decaying armour flesh hung loosely from rotting sinew. Trails of ethereal energy licked out between their joints, animating the twisted corpse-things assaulting the village. A monster of children’s stories, the Marbh. As if by command the group turned to face their new threat and silently began marching toward Camshron. Finally, his turn to strike. The warrior charged forth with a roar, thrusting forward with the harpoon. The weapon sang as it sank through fetid flesh and cracked bone, pinning his foe into the dirt before unleashing a bone rending swipe with his axe, with such force a handful of the raiding party were sent crashing to the ground with the snap of brittle, ancient bone. Swords, blunt with decay crashed against Camshron’s bare arms, he cared little, so lost in his berserker like state to feel the true extent of any injury as the blades cut into his flesh, leaving ragged, filthy wounds in their wake.

The war horn of clan Tarbh blared, the low tone shaking the bones of their undead foes and piercing through even Camshron’s battle rage. The Shieldmaidens hammered brutal flanged maces upon their shields before sprinting into the melee, heavy shields before them. The warriors smashed into the horde with the force of a battering ram, shattering bone and sending the undead sprawling to the ground before being trampled flat under plate armoured boots with a wet crunch. The crew of the Carban followed suit, spurred on by the sight of their cousins and adopted brother wading into the fray. Camshron was deep in the centre of the horde, power muscles sending his axe around his body in vicious swipes. Clothing was torn away as the warrior’s movements blurred. His fists and weapon pistoned out from the dervish he became, ruining any who came to strike at him. An Athach’s vision was surrounded by a haze of the foul energies animating his foes. Even those he thought cut down pulled themselves back together, literally reassembling themselves at the corners of his vision. Necrotic flesh stitched itself back together, forced into unnatural regeneration by some malign force. With a disapproving grunt the giant punched out once more, catching one of the undead horde in the face. Bone splintered and brackish gore burst forth from the skull, now transformed into nothing but a sack of pulped flesh. As his victim fell to the blood soaked dirt, the energies holding it together dissipated. Camshron watched the form slowly crumble and fade to ash before it was cast asunder by the ongoing battle.

"Destroy their heads!" Camshron roared.

"Seagh!" His warriors called back in acknowledgment. The women of clan Tarbh set to work with mace and shield, ruining skulls with devastating blows while bashing enemies off balance to ready the next bone sundering swing. Camshron cast his eyes to the great hall. the heavy oak doors began to swing open at last, its occupants coming to the realisation salvation has come at last.

"Dubhgall, Father?!" He called out as he took another head within his massive fists, tearing it away effortlessly.

A form appeared from the shadows with a bloody bandage covering his left eye. Fiery red hair hung around his young features, stuck to his skin with a vile mixture of blood, viscera and sweat. He limped forward in a trance like state.

"Brother!" Camshron called out.

The young man’s eyes began to focus as he heard the giant’s call.

"Camshron?! By the Threads…"

"Enough! go to the smith, get me a hammer!" The warrior bellowed. Dubhgall stared on, confused. "Now, the gobha, go!" Camshron struggled against a mass of the dead, clawing at his exposed flesh as he spoke. The giant roared with hatred as they sank skeletal claws and rotten teeth into his tough flesh. The battle wore on, the Shieldmaidens fought with all of their might against the tide, caving in helms and skulls alike, felling any that came within reach. Not without cost however, as two of their number were forced under the mass of stinking bodies. Their screams of anger pierced the din as their armour was rent and flesh pulled from their bones, defiant to the end.

"Athach!" Came a call from one of the warriors embroiled in the melee. It was Caoimhe, a woman of broad shoulders and formidable strength. She swung a broadsword down upon the foe before her, only for it to shatter upon the filth covered armour plating with the tolling of her own death bell. Black smoke belched from a strange device mounted to the beast’s back as it moved and struck. Caoimhe stood in horror, the hilt of her broken blade still tight in her grip as the creature batted her away as if the stocky warrior was nothing. She screamed as tissue began to swell from the blow, shifting cracked bone into precious organs, puncturing the thin fabric of her lungs and opening the floodgates to torrents of blood. Camshron could only watch as he struggled against the force of his opponents dragging him down. Her battle was over, all that was left was the agonising pain. She choked as her life’s blood filled her lungs, drowning her. Caoimhe’s throat burned as she wretched, coughing up her vital fluids. The coppery tang was all that remained as her last thread was cut and the warrior fell still. Her victorious foe barked and howled with a otherworldly screech. Keening wails sent men to their knees clutching their ears, making them easy prey to the horde. Camshron roared in reply, pulling himself free of clutching hands.

"Catch!" Dubhgall called out to his adopted brother as he cast out a smithing hammer. With lightning speed, the giant caught it before sweeping the tool out before him in a punishing arc, sending his foes to their doom with ease. He allowed himself a victorious growl before setting his eyes upon the wailing beast putting Camshron’s men to slaughter.

The enraged giant pushed his way through the throng of bodies, throwing obstacles out of his path as if making his way through a patch of flimsy reeds until he stood before his adversary. Blades and cudgels hammered his massive frame, blood flowed freely across his body and yet the warrior cared little. All wounds heal, but the pain of defeat is eternal. He thought to himself. Words told to him by the man who became his father. A helm of ivory stared back at Camshron as he strode forth, eyes of red glass glinted under a heavy brow watching his every move. From head to foot the beast was enveloped within a casing of this bone like material blanketed with moss and plant life. It whined and sparked, as if labouring to stay together as it sluggishly moved. With a screech the creature swung his blade clumsily at the warrior. Camshron easily swatted the strike aside and brought his axe above his bloodied head, bringing it down in a titanic swipe. The blade bit deep into the armour plating of the monster’s chest before breaking apart. Shards of harshly hammered metal were sent out in every direction, embedding themselves into wood, bone and flesh alike. Splinters dug deep into Camshron’s face, covering his vision with crimson blood. The monster screeched again before stabbing forward with a sword of ancient steel, impaling the giant upon the rusted blade. Dubhgall called out for his brother, shock and terror played across his features. Hope drained from him as he watched the blade twist in An Athach’s gut, causing a spurt of vital fluids to splash across the killer’s armour. The hammer dropped from the warrior’s grip. The entrance to the great hall filled with the people of Clan Mathan, hope leaving their hearts as they saw their champion put to the blade.

Camshron’s eyes stared deep into the lenses of his foe’s helm as he placed both hands upon the sword. With a grunt he dug his heels into the dirt, and pushed against the force of his opponent. The undead creature’s armour creaked and whined against the sudden resistance. Protective plating snapped and fell away from the beast as it was forced to its knees. An Athach placed a meaty hand upon its shoulder and brought it to the ground. With a backhanded strike the helm was removed revealing the creature inside, another undead beast of the Marbh. Camshron grabbed the creature’s gorget, pinning it in place. Gone was the petrifying scream that had sent An Athach’s warriors to their knees. What remained was a fetid corpse, flesh sloughing away from its face as it spat and grunted in animalistic hatred as foamy green puss congealed around its ragged, dry lips. Even now it attempted to crane its neck and bite at his hands while its own continued to twist and turn the blade embedded within Camshron’s body. No sign of pain passed over the warrior’s features as the sword sank deeper and changed course inside his body. His ice blue eyes burned with hate as he placed a hand over the Marbh’s face, ignoring the fluids spat upon his palm and tore the skull away in a fountain of black gore. The headless corpse remained kneeling, as if in surrender as the armour locked the remains in place as a statue of Camshron’s bloody triumph. Ash spilled forth from the ancient form as the power over it lost hold, along with the remainder of the horde. As silence fell, Camshron An Athach found himself standing knee deep in the remains of the Marbh creatures. With no more than a grimace the warrior wrenched the sword free of his body and snapped the blade over his knee with a roar. So powerful it was it sent a ripple forth through the air, casting ashes to the winds. Staggering, the giant placed his hand upon the village well at the heart of the square. Shards of embedded iron pushed out of his flesh as his superhuman abilities took hold. It always numbed him as tissue and organs reformed, knitting together skin and muscle, leaving only the faintest scar of the deepest wound in its wake. As weariness took hold, a familiar hand grasped his own, dwarfing that of the mortal’s.

"Brother." Dubhgall cautiously whispered. "Grim news."

"Father?" Camshron replied, eyes closed tight.

"Aye" The young man hung his head. "He’s gone."

Tears welled in the corners of An Athach’s cold eyes. Gone? The man who gave him a home, purpose, a teacher and a mentor lost so easily? The ache in his heavy heart was all the more painful now. “How?”

"A ‘messenger’ came to the village. A little girl screaming and crying, father took her in, she tore his throat out for it. Too kind hearted. I put the little shit to the torch for it" Bravado was something Dubhgall was never known for. It was taking all the will he could muster not to simply break down into tears.

"Aye, I know." Camshron’s mind fell back to the day he stumbled into Càrn Cìobair. Illiterate, devoid of language. The old smith took him in, raised him alongside Dubhgall and helped him learn how to harness his gifts. “What’s left?”

“The old rifles are better off as clubs now. The last of the shells are spent, along with the knowledge on how to create them.” Dubhgall held a rifle in his grip, motioning to it as he spoke. It was a simple thing, a primitive leftover from times of old. Rugged enough to be operable even after generations and with ammunition easy enough to create with the proper knowledge.

“Damn good club though.” The giant replied, dryly. “They’re heavy bastards.”

Sunset cast shadows of the ruined settlement across the land, blackened whale ribs pointing skyward like the carcass of a some massive animal, picked clean by predators. The hall, the smithy and a handful of outhouses and bothies were all that remained once the battle ended. Camshron sat upon the stairs to the hall. ‘What now?’ he thought to himself. Càrn Cìobair was leaderless. Many of its people slaughtered. The heart of Clan Mathan sacked and left to rot. Lost in his thoughts, he dreamed of bringing his people back to glory with his own to hands, ensuring the Mathan would always be remembered in the histories of Gealach. But what was he? A warrior, labourer, smith, but a leader? He could picture it, a golden band around his head, jewelled armour and a sceptre. Camshron scoffed. No, too high and mighty for him. Too much politics and masquerade for a simple man such as he.

“It was draoidheachd. You could see it, couldn‘t you?” Came a rasping voice. Only one person managed to take Camshron by surprise, the old crone. Called a witch by some, seer by others, and devoid of sanity by most.

“Sidheag. You didn’t get yourself killed?” A haggard, weather beaten face stared into his eyes. She stood a hands breadth from the warrior, stooped low and wrapped in mangy furs.

“You underestimate me, giant.” She cackled. “I have my ways to be hidden in plain sight, as you well know. I see and hear much without the eyes of others upon me.”

Camshron smirked. She was an outsider of the clan much in the same way that he himself thought he was. The warrior knew full well he was not like others, not only in stature, but in mind and in spirit. Sidheag was the same, old and wrinkled but stronger mentally than most gave her credit for.

“Aye, I saw it.” By this point survivors had began to gather, watching the display.

“Don’t fill his mind with old legends!” A voice shouted.

“Legends?!” She screeched, turning to face the crowd. Just as the Marbh are legends? You know the tales, you know where this started!”

“The Black Isle? You cannot be serious.”

Camshron’s mind raced at the name, stories elders told to children around the fire during Winter. “The isle of the dead? The three lords?”

“You do remember, I told you that tale, after all!” Sidheag called out triumphantly. She raced over to the armoured form still kneeling where Camshron had defeated its owner. Moving faster than any should in her state, she pulled away ancient wrappings and moss to reveal a rune. Cut harshly into the chest plate. Too neat to be a simple blade of Gealach make, yet not of a las weapon of old ages. “This is their mark, old draoidheachd!” Dissenter’s mouths fell agape, men fell to their knees and children were forced to look away.

“How could the lords still live?” Camshron asked, dumbfounded.

“Draoidheachd is a forbidden art. The lords, as they came to be were exiles of their tribe. Practising dark magicks upon themselves and the dead. They feared their end above all and perverted their bodies, imprisoning their essence within themselves. Once cast out the exiles wandered until they came to the Black Isle, the burial ground of our forefathers.”

“And there they had enough corpses to raise armies…” Camshron added as he stood. Purpose lit a fire in his heart as it always did. Purpose brought a focussed mind and distraction to him, he craved it. “I know what I must do.”

The crone nodded with a smile. “None but you, Camshron An Athach.”

“Well, if you must go off on a legendary quest, you’ll need a legendary weapon, brother.” Dubhgall interjected. He motioned to two men hefting a massive object swaddled in cloth. “Brother, this is yours.”

The two villagers placed down the item with a heavy thump as Camshron approached. Carefully unfurling the cloth revealed a sheathed sword of incredible size.

“A gift of the clans. Made from the old steel too. My father had hoarded all that he could find to build this for you.”

Old steel, finest material known to the clans of Gealach, crafted from the relics of their forefathers, so rare a metal that even the eldest of clan members had seldom seen its like. Camshron took hold of the rough leather grip and pulled the blade free of its scabbard in a flash of silver light. The blade was patterned akin to wood grain through layer upon layer of alloyed metals being melded together, giving it strength and flexibility. Along the centre of the blade flowing knotwork was engraved and stained black from quillons to tip. He took the blade in both hands, bringing the weapon up to his face. Great twin pointed quillons of intricately scrimshawed antler stood proud, angled outwards in the direction of the point. Camshron bade the onlookers to move away from him as he took a cursory swing. The weapon moved as if an extension of his own form, every swipe and cut delivered with a dexterity he had never knew he could even hope to attain. The weapon fit An Athach as if the two were meant to be together, a symbiotic relationship. It felt right in the giant’s hands. Moving to grasp the scabbard and replace the blade, the sword sang as it entered the sheath, leaving only the quillons, grip and pommel of bulky boar tusk visible. The sheath in itself was a work of art. Stamped black leather bearing the markings of the greatest clans along with a choke and drag of polished horn. A weapon fit for a lord, or maybe a king.

“Our cousins sent items of appreciation, a tusk from the Torc, antler from Damh Cróiceach, leather from Tarbh. and horn from Rùda. After you killed that Storm Giant bastard, these were sent to you. Father got hold of them and worked on this for you in secret along with me. ”

“They honour me, as do you.” Camshron was close to speechless. He never thought himself worthy of a weapon of such beauty and gravitas, yet here it was, held tightly in his grip. His eyes barely left the weapon as he spoke. “There is much to be done then.” His tone commanding, as if being presented with this gift bolstered his resolve. “Send messengers to the watches, let them know what happened here and ensure they send word to our neighbours. We tend to the wounded, salvage anything we can from the ruins and rebuild. We lost much today, but I promise you it is not our end!”

((My story submission to the fanfiction advent calendar. This is part one of the story, something I’ve had knocking around in my head since writing about Camshron’s past. Bit of a long one, too.))

Lords of the Black Isle by Ian Biggins

[sonsoffenris]

A great bonfire burned bright on the stone plateau as men marched up the rough hewn steps, carrying the remains of their former brothers aloft on great carved targes. The hilltop was battered by a howling gale, tearing standards from their mounts to fly off into the glen below and sending the hair of the speaker whipping around his head as he bellowed over the din.

"We commend our fallen to the flames, so that their ashes are carried across their homeland, to settle and bring new life in their wake. Just as we sing songs of their bravery and call their names in the heat of battle, may their fighting spirit light a fire in our hearts in the darkest of times."

The men and women gathered around the great fire cheered and called out as remains were placed into the flames. The speaker nodded to the woman standing alongside him, clasping a great Astartes helm, highly polished and engraved with knotwork and runic inscription.

"And for our brothers who could not return, we cast this to the flame in memory. For Bull, my brother. He made the greatest of sacrifices so we could continue the battle until we were all but spent. The Legion will be amiss without his laughter and cheer."

"And his damned thick skull!" Came a shout from the crowd, followed by raucous laughter.

The speaker allowed himself a smirk.

"Aye, that as well." 

The crowd became silent once more as the fire crackled and embers rose into the air to be carried off by the winds. For hours the gathering stood sentinel, watching their brothers undertake their final journey. Across the glen many great fires glowed as the Tosgan Cruaidh bid farewell to their dead. Native beasts stood in the shadows watching the conflagration, heads bowed low as if they too felt the loss of the warriors before them.

Vaelynn watched as the flames licked flesh from bone and leather baked before cracking into pieces. The shield maiden placed a hand before her face as the smell of burning flesh permeated the air. A scent she was more than accustomed to after battling side by side with Romach and his Steel Claws, but the fact that this was caused by the Astartes she had called friend left her ill. The speaker placed an augmetic hand on her shoulder, gripping slightly too hard. She looked up at Romach's stern features as his white hair whirled around his head, giving him a halo akin to the angels of old religion.

"He would have wanted you here." He said solemnly

"Oh?" She replied, attempting to conceal the effect the odours had on her. 

Romach nodded. "Bull cared for you a great deal. You were his 'little sister' as he put it" He said with a smirk.

Vaelynn felt her eyes well up as a smile came to her features, nodding to Bull's helm as its eye lenses looked back at her from the flames.

As the sun rose to signify the approach of dawn, the fires died. Great plumes of smoke appeared across the valley as other memorial ceremonies also ended. Romach stepped forward and placed his organic hand into the smoking ash, taking a great handful and spreading it across his face, allowing himself to fall into the traditions of his forefathers.

"May we all come to an end as well as they did." 

Astartes nodded and cheered as the dawn broke over the hills, bring an orange glow to their surroundings. Great banners were unfurled as mortal serfs and superhuman warriors alike played music using simple woodwind instruments and drums as the group readied themselves to depart. As the air filled with the sound of beating drums and rhythmic tunes the gathering left the stone plateau. Romach stood for a moment longer, staring across the landscape as smoke dispersed and throngs of mourners met in the bottom of the valley to begin their procession. The pain of loss weighed heavily upon him, so many dead under his leadership. The warrior could feel his inner daemons try to take hold as the faces of the fallen flashed through his mind. He shook the oppressive emotion from his consciousness before joining the march to their fortress home. 

[sonsoffenris]

"Wee one! Stoke the fire, my legs are getting a chill."

The sound of infant's laughter filled the room as the speaker smiled knowingly, looking down at his missing limbs with a look of mock surprise on his face.

"Oh! Forgot again! My mind is away these days…" The speaker’s aged eyes sparkled with mischief as he took a long draw from his pipe, bathing his face in an orange glow. Children sat huddled around the elder in the dim, smoke filled Broch. The flames of the hearth danced across the stone walls.

"I suppose you’re all hidin’ from that howlin’ storm and you expect me to entertain you, eh? Will a story work?"

As if in response the heavy gale moaned through the gaps in the naturally shaped stones that made up the walls. The young ones started at the sound. The elder simply chuckled, releasing whisps of sweet scented smoke from between his cracked lips to dance around his wrinkled features and fill the air.

"All right then, this story is true, I swear upon my own sons, wherever they may be now. This is the story of the day the stranger came to our village…"

______________________________________________________

I was your age in those days, only five or so Winters when we came, the giant of the frozen North. Whispers spread through the village like wildfire in his wake.

“He’s feral! Killed his family as soon as he left the womb! Heard he eats people too.”

“He’s a demon! Came down on a fallen star!”

Whatever he may be, he came to us in rags and animal pelts. Brown matted hair hung around his face like tangled roots as he shambled through our settlement. Locals herded the children inside as the warriors kept a keen eye on him with a hand ready on their sword hilts. I had managed to wriggle free of my fathers grasp and there I was! Standing right in this wild man’s path. He stopped dead in front of me and peered down on my tiny form. Ice blue eyes stared right into mine and yet, I felt no fear. Maybe it was just youthful foolishness but I smiled at him and through all the dirt and grime caked on his face I saw that smile returned, in a confused way.

I will never forget my mother’s face as the wild man knelt down before me and she took up her spear, hurling it with all the power of a parent defending their young. I won’t forget her scream either as he grabbed me in his massive arms and turned away, letting the spear sink into his back with a thud. Without even a flinch he placed me down and pulled the spear free. The weapon was a mere toothpick in his hand! The giant looked down to me and grunted. Could he speak? As his lips formed to create another sound he was cut off by a blood curdling cry from the woods. I screamed and ran to my mother. That wolf like howl rumbling from the dense forest had haunted us for weeks. It was no normal wolf, mind. The elders called it Chulaan after some ancient legend. Hunters retreated from their search for game with tales of huge gnashing teeth and thick brown fur, claws that could rip a man asunder and baleful red eyes. Myth or not, when the beast was heard we huddled indoors, fearing for our lives. The giant's head snapped to the direction of the sound and with a growl he bounded off into the black treeline.

For five days and four nights the air was filled with the screams and howls of the two beasts, locked in combat. The folk of the village went around their business in terror as the sounds of combat thundered forth from the forest. Finally, on the fifth night there was silence. I walked out into the freezing night and stared out for any sign. I rubbed my hands together, trying in vain to stay warm as my breath turned to freezing mist before me. Not a single bird song or chirping insect could be heard, all was still and silent. Suddenly a footstep, followed by another came from the forest. I screamed for my mother as I watched a huge figure wander out into the torchlight of the village gates. It was the giant! And in tow was a hulking canine beast. I cried out in terror as the two marched towards me further into the light, with each blazing torch the two passed the toll of their battle could be seen. Each was covered in fresh wounds and blood. Clothes were torn and patches of fur had been torn away. My people emptied from their homes and stood in stunned silence at the two monsters standing there, as if straight from the old tales themselves. My father finally broke the silence with laughter as he marched towards the man and shook his hand. 

"Well then, I think we should welcome our new neighbour, the Atach!"

_________________________________________________________

"My pipe has burned out, I will leave the tale for another time." 

The children cried out in disappointment and the old man waved his arms to silence them.

"Next time, I'll tell the tale of the Atach and the Lords of the Black Isles, or maybe the Atach and the storm god? For now, rest yourselves! It is late and the night is upon us."

As the infants dispersed with a murmur of dissent a girl stepped torward to the elder in his chair, playing with her long auburn hair nervously.

"Old Dubhgall, you had sons?"

The aged man's features lit up at the mention of his children.

"Oh aye! Romach and Iagan. They're somewhere with the Athach now, fighting at his side, just as I did back in the old days."

((Something a little different. Just trying different styles of writing and stuff. Really it was just a rough idea of having old story tellers sharing the myths and legends of heroes. Hope it reads okay!))